


Tabula Rasa

by Erisabesu (ErisabesuFic)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 1880, 8018, 8059, Angst, BAMF Hibari Kyouya, D18 - Freeform, Dino/Hibari - Freeform, Drama, HibaYama, M/M, POV Hibari Kyouya, Romance, S80, Squalo/Yamamoto - Freeform, Yamamoto/Gokudera - Freeform, yamahiba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisabesuFic/pseuds/Erisabesu
Summary: "There are only three who know the big picture: Tsuna who dies two days early, Shoichi who is trapped behind enemy lines, and Hibari Kyoya, who is left to ensure a new future can be made—a future in which he will not exist.”  [2009.09.03]





	1. Chapter 1

**1**

_At what point did you look around you and decide everything in this life was _wrong_—and that it must be destroyed?_

Was it the night the first tremors in the Mafia world shook the foundations of your Family? Or was it when your House began to fall, fringe alliances crumbling into bits better swept away and discarded with the rest of the garbage?

How long ago was it that you stood before the mirror and believed beyond any doubt that the Sawada Tsunayoshi looking back at you shouldn’t exist? That you were a mistake despite all the years of mentorship under the greatest Hitman in the world? That the strength you’d cultivated up ‘till now would never be enough to overcome the enemies at your doorstep?

Was it the moment the Baby died? Was it before? Was it after?

_Do you understand all that will be lost for the sake of what there is to gain?_

—

**[These sparks that have ignited must be severed from their origin.]**

The airplane engines crescendo to a deafening roar, and Hibari closes his eyes at the precise moment the wheels leave the asphalt and the steep tilting climb begins.

The plane buffets from side to side from minor turbulence, but then settles into a level position, high above the cloud cover blocking the nighttime view of Milan. The pilot makes the usual announcement describing cruising altitude and weather conditions, reminding the passengers that the flight duration is a mere one hour and forty minutes. Alone in the front of the plane’s First Class cabin, Hibari pays only half attention to these goings on so that he can tell the attendants in clipped but fluent Italian not to bother him under any circumstances. One look in his eyes and they’re happy to comply.

Hibari watches the limited scenery outside the window for a few more minutes of silent contemplation, rhetorical questions coming unbidden to his tongue and held squirming against the roof of his mouth. His facial expression does not change.

Finally, he glances down at his watch and confirms that he’s on schedule. Then he withdraws a sheaf of folded documents from the inside breast pocket of his suit, crosses his left leg over his right, leans his shoulder in against the window and begins to memorize the contents. In one hour and forty-five minutes the documents will be destroyed.

There’s not much time.

—

The airport in Sicily’s Palermo has two official names, and is Hibari’s favorite. At twenty minutes to midnight the place is uncrowded and well disciplined. He stops in the men’s room to get rid of the evidence, holding the burning papers by the corner until the flames lick over his fingers, holding the burning details in the corners of his mind for safekeeping. He drops the ashes into the toilet and flushes.

Two minutes later, he has walked the length of the airport and almost reaches the final set of doors when his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. Hibari stops, flips it open and holds it to his ear. A moment later he returns it to its place, pushes through the doors and turns to the right. Kusakabe Tetsuya emerges from a black sedan in line with three taxis, right on cue. He opens the door to the backseat, and Hibari slides in. Only once they’re both inside and the sedan has pulled through the circle and away from the airport does Kusakabe say, “Welcome back, Kyo-san.”

Hibari answers with a wide yawn, fingers cupped over his open mouth. Behind them, a plane screeches down a runway and lifts into the air, caught in slow-motion by the sedan’s mirrors. He closes his eyes and they drive to the hideout in silence most of the way, until the gaudy lights of the city-center, the _Quattro Canti_, mark the midpoint of the trip.

Hibari watches out the tinted window until the sparkles begin to fade, and then gives the first order.

“Tetsu. Only two or three Foundation members are to remain in all worldwide research facilities for the time being, except for the facilities within Italy—those each need four until we settle that other matter. Of the rest, half are to relocate to Turin. The other half will go to Namimori.”

“Do you have preferences for who is sent to those locations, Kyo-san?”

“I’ll leave the details to you.”

Kusakabe glances once in the rear-view. “Shall I make arrangements for you to accompany any of them?”

“No.” Hibari turns back to the window, and watches the desolate streets smear past into the darker rural outskirts of the town. “Not yet.”

Kusakabe verifies their identities at the checkpoint, and then angles the sedan through the front gates of an isolated strip of property engulfing a moderate estate. Hibari gets out, immaculate shoes crunching on the gravel in the circular drive, and allows Kusakabe to precede him up the porch steps to the front door. Hibird flutters out from a window above and lands on Hibari’s shoulder just as he crosses the threshold.

One step inside and Hibari knows something is off—the front of the villa is entirely too loud. Up ahead two voices hush immediately, but one does not; Hibari curls his fingers around the B-rank Cloud ring in his suit pocket and pauses, thumbnail on the Mammon-chain’s catch. Kusakabe coughs, and the two subordinates split in opposite directions to stand at attention with their backs to the walls.

Hibari’s eyes settle on the man standing in the center of his kitchen, pinning him to the spot.

“What do you think you are doing in my house?”

Yamamoto Takeshi smiles, meeting Hibari’s weighted gaze without the slightest flinch. Instead, he pulls his loosened tie from the collar of his blue shirt and opens the top button to expose his tanned throat. Then he rolls the necktie into a loopy bundle and tucks it into his suit jacket pocket.

“I just happened to be passing through, Hibari-san. I’ll only stay a little while.”

Hibari glares in response to this audacity, chin tucked in, roughened flint opposite Yamamoto’s cool steel. Hibird takes flight, disappearing back the way they came. No one else dares to move.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Yamamoto amends. His brown pupils are as cold and serious as his lips are not.

Hibari notes the tell-tale prickling on the back of his neck and the warring of impulses provoked by this man stepping into his arena—whether battleground or neutral territory—every single time. How many months has it been? And still, nothing between them has changed.

In the acute silence, Hibari walks straight up to Yamamoto and then past, bumping his shoulder and shoving him out of the way.

“You had better be gone by morning.”

Through the tension, Hibari can sense Yamamoto’s answering smirk, but he doesn’t deign any further interaction. Not tonight. Not after being awake for more than twenty-four hours encompassing two plane rides, one arduous and classified debriefing, and none worth the snap of his jaws. What he wants most right now is a nap.

As he climbs the stairs to his chambers, Hibari uncurls his fingers from the ring in his pocket and half-listens to the sounds of Kusakabe asking after Yamamoto’s father, their hands clasped and backs thumped alternately in a hearty greeting.

_Yamamoto Takeshi._ Hibari turns the name over with his tongue, presses it down between his molars, and then swallows it in one gulp.

_What a coincidence you should find your way here._

—

The grand _schema_ may be Irie Shoichi’s, but Sawada Tsunayoshi has a great deal to accomplish in a very short span:

Requesting that the Ninth Boss’s inventor Gianni send his son Gianinni to Japan, so the unfinished Vongola base will have completed plumbing and working security systems—and protection from radiation. Making precautionary arrangements for Iemitsu to take his mother somewhere far from both Japan and Italy, and spreading the rumor that they’re enjoying an Italian holiday. Explaining varied and much-diluted versions of the strategy—with or without mentions of time travel—to each of the other Guardians. Including a select few of the top Vongola allied Families in the loop. Concealing instructions only the Baby will understand so he will know to collect their driver’s licenses. Dispatching Sasagawa Ryohei to the Varia. Sneaking CEDEF’s Lal Mirch and Basil over to Namimori and Spain, respectively. Calling home his Left Hand from the usual diplomatic errands and keeping him close by. Entrusting his Right Hand with special, cryptic orders to carry out so the man won’t sabotage all their work when it comes time for the Boss of the Vongola to meet the Boss of the Millefiori, the zero point in a critical timeline from which all further actions will hinge. Entrusting even more cryptic and illusory tasks to the one man (and woman) capable of carrying them out over several long distances.

And all of this in the correct order so that nothing can go wrong.

Hibari’s part comes later, when all the players emerge from backstage in the proper sequence and at the proper time. For now, the passing hours are his own.

A mere forty-nine days left until his last breath.

—

When Hibari wakes mid-morning the villa is still and quiet, but not empty.

Kusakabe will have carried out his instructions with typical efficiency, sending most of the men in Palermo to the Foundation’s research facilities in Turin and Namimori. The four Foundation members left will have disappeared, leaving Hibari alone with his guest for the time being, actions that have become the standard operating procedure for reasons Hibari refuses to acknowledge.

He grinds his teeth and disregards the aromas seeping up the stairs and tempting his empty stomach, proof enough that Yamamoto is in the kitchen abusing his welcome. Again. Hibari gets out of his bed and dresses in the first thing he finds in his closet, which is clean and pressed, if a bit stale; he shakes out the yukata’s crisp folds before tying the sash snug.

Hibari descends the stairs on silent feet and enters the kitchen just as Yamamoto tosses a chunk of apple into the air and catches it in his mouth, hip leaned into the food preparation island in the center. A laptop is open on the cutting board, set to stream the coverage of a baseball game somewhere in the United States, if the language is anything to go by.

Yamamoto notices him instantly and quirks one side of his mouth as he chews, a saucer with the rest of the apple and a paring knife within his reach. Hibari flicks his eyes over the room and finds clean, wet dishes stacked in the drain to dry, and a plate of food nearby steaming the underside of a plastic covering. Everything mostly in order.

How many times have they repeated just such a scene?

Hibari is not sure how Yamamoto keeps finding him, when no one else has ever been able to pin down his location anywhere on the globe. These kinds of coincidences still make Hibari uneasy, although Yamamoto’s first security breach was over three years back. Yamamoto is easier for Hibari to deal with than most. But Yamamoto has a strange influence on the Foundation members who meet him; there’s something about his affability that is contagious and can’t be stopped. All signs point to an internal leak… but Hibari trusts that his subordinates would know better than to breach the Foundation’s discipline for any reason, much less something like a request from the Vongola Tenth’s strongest swordsman, Yamamoto Takeshi.

Hibari moves to the stove and sets the teakettle on to boil. Yamamoto rinses the apple pulp from his fingers and then gets down a Shino-ware teapot and two cups.

“Hey Hibari.”

Hibari shifts his eyes up and to the side.

“Did you know the airport here has two names?”

Hibari shifts his eyes back to the teakettle in response.

Yamamoto picks up another apple slice. “I heard about it when I was in _Napoli_ recently, and got curious. Seems there were these two judges thirty years ago who were big time anti-Mafia, and so the Mafia got rid of them. There are giant memorial portraits of them right in front of the airport and everything.”

Hibari can picture them clearly; in fact, he walked past them just last night.

“Apparently it was the Brusca-Riina Family. Rumor has it they dissolved not long after the incident. Think we were ever allied with them? You know, back then?” Yamamoto asks, biting into the apple and tilting his head.

Hibari shrugs. “Who knows.”

He opens a canister of his favorite tea and pinches enough dry leaves into the teapot’s basin for two servings. Then he turns off the stove moments before the teakettle begins to whistle and pours boiling water into the teapot. He closes the lid so the tea leaves can steep.

“I sure hope not.” Yamamoto swallows and takes another bite. “It wouldn’t be good to have allies that couldn’t keep their hits a secret. Makes us all look bad.”

—

**[Wouldn’t it be faster to kill them all?]**

The Foundation has facilities all over the world, research labs and safe houses comprising an information network that would bring the rest of the Mafia World to their knees with envy.

Hibari operates it as a secret society—much like Geppetto Lorenzini’s—with eyes and ears planted in strategic locations and nothing that can be traced back to any one source. Over the last ten years, he and his subordinates have built this web slowly and with care, seeking the origins of the mafia rings and the box weapons they open in the hopes of completing the puzzle. They are close, but there is much work left for them to complete … work Hibari resents abandoning.

He makes a point not to stay in any one location for very long; he insists on instant mobility at all times, overseeing most of their research personally. He moves about the world undetected and unbound by luggage, keeping the same wardrobe in every hideout: three to five complete black suits, and three to five yukata, with undergarments and shoes to match. In this way he has everything he needs, and nothing at all to tie him down.

If The Foundation’s research over the last years hadn’t backed up Irie Shoichi’s story in the meeting, Hibari would have eliminated the man outright. But Hibari is no fool—and for the most part, neither is Sawada Tsunayoshi. The plan will go forward, created by Irie, approved by Sawada, and guided by Hibari for as long as he is able.

But nothing about the weeks ahead will be nearly so simple.

There are a few things Hibari needs to take care of before leaving Italy, so he leaves Palermo almost immediately and travels to Rome and Florence, and briefly, Bologna. The sense that he’s being watched—a feeling that has bothered him since meeting Sawada in Milan—deepens with every passing day. Hibari has a premonition about who it may be, and so his men stationed in Italy maintain a close watch; two can play this game.

Ten days before the Zero Point, they are successful in capturing a photograph with Hibird, and send it on to Sawada to plant accordingly. That night, Hibari and Kusakabe take a red eye to Munich, Germany.

Koenig and his assistants have long since gone underground, but Munich is where it all began, with Koenig’s discovery that caught the eyes of International scientists Verde and Innocenti and spawned the infamous partnership that would manifest the weaponry of the present, a present that will soon be unmade. Hibari maintains a base here primarily to keep watch on Koenig’s _former_ assistants—on the off chance one of them stumbles onto a discovery that would end Koenig’s monopoly on underground box creation and Mafia funding. Enough strange coincidences have happened in this era to warrant the Foundation’s interest in keeping tabs on their movements.

Munich is quiet. All seems to be falling into place. Hibari passes the time listening to and digesting various intelligence reports, watching for anything amiss, sipping scalding hot green tea.

On the day of Sawada and Byakuran’s fated meeting Hibari sheds his yukata in exchange for a black dress suit, in case urgent contingency measures are required. He’s not a superstitious man, and he also isn’t expecting anything to go amiss—no plan is flawless, but Shoichi’s is close to perfect, considering.

Hibari is as surprised as the rest when the SOS signal from CEDEF’s wounded Oregano—relayed through the Foundation members in Turin—comes through with the shocking news that Sawada Tsunayoshi has been shot and killed.

Nobody says a word for several tense seconds—and then Hibari begins giving orders.

“You.” Hibari points at the member closest to the com device. “Tell them to get Sawada’s body to Japan immediately. Don’t use the Turin airport. Take him by car along the coast to Monaco, and then get him on a plane to anywhere in Japan but Tokyo. More instructions will follow. Tetsu—get me Gokudera Hayato on the phone.”

Kusakabe dials the number from their scrambler and hands Hibari the phone. Hibari leaves the room for a quieter part of the hideout and what he expects will be a very bad phone experience.

He is not wrong.

“Who the _hell_ do you think you are, ordering me—”

“Do not raise your voice to me, Gokudera Hayato.” Hibari pinches the bridge of his nose.

“The Tenth—”

“_Gave you those instructions._ Do you intend to disobey the last request the Vongola Tenth Boss made to his Right Hand?”

“Fuck you!”

“NO.”

Gokudera sputters a string of obscenities, which Hibari cuts off.

“Someone from the Foundation will meet you in that place with the body. You should know what to do—unless you intend to fail this too.”

There is a pause in which Hibari can hear the muted creak of teeth clenching tight, and the scrape of Gokudera’s cell phone held in a trembling hand against an ear sporting two metal cuffs.

Gokudera inhales a shaky breath. “You are one fucking cold bastard, Hibari.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Why you—!”

Hibari clicks the phone off with a press of his thumb. When he returns to the common room he hands the phone back to Kusakabe and sits in a chair off to the side, ready to field whatever new developments arise as the information trickles in. He agreed to play this part to the end, no matter what that might entail.

A palpable grief settles throughout the house, so deeply personal it remains unmoved by the muted noises of the city outside.

Hibari is as somber as the rest, even with the knowledge that Sawada’s death isn’t permanent—or at least not permanent in the way everyone else thinks.

In two days the Tenth’s teenage self will arrive in the predetermined location, as outlined in the contingency plan developed that night in Milan should Sawada Tsunayoshi’s meeting with Byakuran prove fatal. The Foundation will ensure Sawada’s body is in place for the switch, and the only other person to know the exact coordinates will be Gokudera Hayato, because—no matter Hibari’s personal feelings on the matter—that’s how Sawada wanted it to be. Gokudera will go there at the appointed time, with certain belongings, but he won’t know why. And when Gokudera’s younger counterpart arrives, he and the young Sawada will have everything they need to begin the future that will replace this one, for better or for worse.

In truth, Sawada’s death changes only one thing about this plan—there is no turning back.

There is no choice but to continue on ahead and die, one by one.

—

Things move quickly after Sawada Tsunayoshi’s assassination.

The Millefiori are ruthless and have done their homework—or perhaps Byakuran only makes a good guess by sending some of his forces to Germany. With the Vongola hunt in full swing, Hibari finalizes the arrangements to ensure Sawada’s body makes it to Japan on schedule, and then evacuates the research facility before any serious danger erupts. He and Kusakabe get on the next possible flight to Taipei, Taiwan.

Taipei should be safe enough with nearly all traces of Verde’s experiments destroyed; neither Hibari nor Kusakabe have a reason to worry about residual non-trinisette radiation. The two of them will have to make their way to Namimori carefully from there, although Sawada’s death is less than twenty-four hours old and therefore Hibari is not due to arrive in Japan for another three days. If Kusakabe finds all the travel plans strange, he does not question where they are going or why. Hibari appreciates such loyalty, and thinks that maybe this bond of theirs is the one thing that will never change no matter how many times they rewind ten years and begin anew. With so many more losses yet to come, it’s only halfway comforting.

The facility in Taipei is empty when they get there, all the Foundation’s members either re-deployed to Namimori and the surrounding environs, or sent out of the line of fire and into hiding if they couldn’t make it to Japan in time. Hibari confirms first thing the arrival of Sawada’s body to the wooded lands outside Namimori, and then he and Kusakabe make an effort to go about business as usual after their grueling sixteen hour flight.

Hibari’s thoughts soon turn to the Baby, the first scheduled to come over from the past; he should have arrived in Namimori right in time to view Vongola _Decimo’s_ coffin, and by now he should have made it to safety in the underground base.

But these thoughts are interrupted when another emergency signal interrupts their breakfast.

Kusakabe goes to the com station and listens first. By the end of the message his face has crumpled, his eyes shut tight in denial. He doesn’t move right away, caught in a wave of emotion Hibari has never witnessed from him before.

“_Tetsu._” Hibari can’t help the impatience. What on earth could upset him like this?

After a moment, Kusakabe slides the earphones off the back of his head and drops them on the table. He blinks back the moisture gathering along his lashes, and clears his throat so he can answer. “It’s from Yamamoto.”

Hibari’s eyes narrow, hands tightening where they rest in his lap.

Kusakabe rubs his nose, struggling to retain composure. “His father is dead. The Millefiori got him last night, less than an hour before Yamamoto learned he could be targeted.”

Tears slip out and trickle down his assistant’s face, wetting the stem of grass clenched between his teeth. Kusakabe turns his head further away, and Hibari says nothing and stays quiet.

How many times in the last ten years has he caught Tetsu sitting at Yamamoto Tsuyoshi’s sushi counter? How many times has he witnessed Yamamoto’s face twinkle with pride when telling stories of his old man, or bragging about the flawless and invincible Shigure Souen Ryuu Tsuyoshi passed down to him?

Kusakabe takes out a handkerchief, dries his eyes and blows his nose. “The rest of the message was for you, Kyo-san.”

Hibari turns his head back to Kusakabe. Kusakabe opens his mouth, then closes it, choosing to hand him the headphones instead. Hibari frowns as he slips them over his head and nods for Kusakabe to rewind the decoded message.

Yamamoto’s voice is steady but thin, stretched to the limits by unfathomable grief. Hibari swallows.

> “…was a good man. I don’t know what this means about the shop yet. But I thought you should know.” A pause. “Hibari? I don’t know where you are now, or if you’ll even get this message, but I hope you are okay. Haha, what am I saying? I’m sure you’re fine. And, uh, if you can… Well, we could really use your fighting strength here in Namimori. If you can come.” Another pause. “I think we’d all feel better. Even Lambo, haha.” The noise of his grip shifting on the com receiver. “Okay then. See you.”

Hibari removes the headset, then closes his eyes and goes very still.

Bound by secrets and Irie Shoichi’s timetable, there is nothing he can do, no acknowledgement he can make, no gesture he can offer. It’s too late. In less than half a day, the next two will arrive from the past, which means by this same time tomorrow, Yamamoto Takeshi will be dead.

Death—molecules held in stasis—Shoichi sugar coats it, but both amount to the _same thing_. The future once unraveled can not be put back together.

Hibari gets up and leaves the room, and then the house, walking by himself for a very long time. He hopes that Yamamoto’s death will be more worthy of him than the senseless mischief of his father’s.

At least the Rain Guardian’s period of mourning will be brief. Others will not be so lucky.

—

Hibari sends Kusakabe to Namimori first. It gives the man a purpose in which to bury his sorrow and move on, as well as reducing the chances either of them will be noticed by the Millefiori when entering Japan or reaching the safety of the Namimori facility.

Hibari hasn’t been back in over a year, but the sights and smells bring back strong memories; it feels good to be _home_. The moment is all too brief.

It is no coincidence that Hibari arrives at Namimori’s shrine just in time to prevent the deaths of the pathetic teenage versions of the Rain and Storm Guardians, bodies lying limp in the grass and awaiting the final blow. He is jet lagged and dehydrated, his mood black enough without having to see Yamamoto’s bleeding, boyish face and know that the man he knew from this era is no more.

It’s one thing to have a schedule and know what will come; it’s something else entirely to see the evidence with his own eyes.

The opponent awaiting him is the infamous Electric Gamma, a man who shouldn’t bore him to tears before the end if his reputation is correct. The fight lasts long enough to be amusing, but ends quickly; Hibari is past any pretense of patience, his fighting spirit dampened by the mangled body of a teenage swordsman lying off to the side, a clear reminder of how weak they all used to be—and a perfect example of how far the discipline in Namimori has been defiled by this unacceptable Millefiori occupation.

Hibari also knew to expect the younger Sawada Tsunayoshi and Lal Mirch. But the boy’s face and those huge eyes are still somewhat of a shock.

Hibari offers Sawada a deceptively lighthearted greeting, although in the end he stands rigid in the brick courtyard of the Shrine, watching Sawada go crashing off through the woods and undergrowth to see where his friends lie unconscious. Hibari’s eyes narrow, the crumpled bodies on the ground making Kusakabe beside them seem a hulking giant.

_Enough._

Hibari abruptly turns away, ignoring Lal Mirch’s pleas and using his one and only mist ring to enter the sacred refuge of the Foundation’s Namimori research facility where he can be alone and breathe. Tetsu can handle the rest.

—

The only human being Hibari actually wants to see is the Baby; he’d never set foot in the Vongola Tenth’s underground base otherwise, and the chance both to see him again and offer helpful information about the SOS signal and Hibird is not something he will pass up.

In the medical wing, Hibari pauses to glance inside various rooms in search of the Baby’s black Fedora, and then winds up following the sounds of the young Sawada Tsunayoshi’s voice shouting at the Baby in just the way he remembers. It’s rather nostalgic. Hibari walks directly down the hall and opens the door without preamble, interrupting their usual bickering.

“Excuse me. A word, if I may.”

The Fedora is missing, but the Baby smiles up at him exactly as he’s done from the very beginning. It’s nice to see it again.

“Well met, Hibari.”

“Same here, Baby.”

The relief of this small exchange lasts but a millisecond.

As more and more people begin crowding into Gokudera Hayato’s room and causing a disturbance, Hibari loses what little hold he had on his temper. When the body count reaches seven he thrashes whoever is closest and then storms off, leaving them all in their ignorance—let them depend on Kusakabe’s goodwill and generosity in order to get the answers they so desperately want. He won’t put up with their rowdy antics, plan or no plan.

Before he leaves the medical wing, and while everyone else in the compound is distracted down the hall, Hibari stops and peeks into the one room with a steady monitor beep filtering muted under the door. His gaze settles for a time on the bandaged profile of teenage Yamamoto’s sleeping face.

When Hibari returns to the comforts of the connected research facility, Kusakabe opens his mouth to speak—and then quickly closes it.

Kusakabe gives him a strange look, and then he nods, and heads to the Vongola side of the compound, ready to handle the debriefing in Hibari’s stead without him having to say a single word.

Hibari retreats to the solace of his chambers, showers off the grime of air travel and battle, and dresses in a fresh, pristine yukata. Even so, his mind is plagued by memories of Junior High, of rooftop battles and ring tournaments…

And all the things that came after.

♦


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Nami High is a near-exact replica of Nami Middle.

Hibari walks the halls with the same ease and confidence he’s always had, retaining his position as the Head of the Discipline Committee in a unanimous vote by the student body. On a Thursday after the last lunch bell he makes his rounds and ensures that all is in order before returning to the Reception Room and finding the door unlocked. Hibari frowns, but this doesn’t stop him from entering as he pleases.

He takes two steps forward and _then_ he stops.

Straight ahead on the leather sofa are two students, neither of them members of the Disciplinary Committee. They’re not even aware of his presence, so engrossed in each other they heard neither his shoes tapping on the linoleum in approach nor the door opening.

Yamamoto Takeshi has one hand snaked up Gokudera Hayato’s shirt, revealing a strip of lean muscles and an angular hip bone visible above low-riding uniform pants and a non-regulation studded belt.

Gokudera’s ringed fingers twist and sink into Yamamoto’s hair, their lips touching and jaws working in the most sensual and intense kissing Hibari has ever witnessed in his entire life. Their stifled moans and labored breathing, and the crackle of leather under their shifting weight trigger the back of Hibari’s neck to prickle in outrage.

He watches them for five full seconds, astounded that such actions could so strip them of their guard and weaken their defenses—are they _mad_ to appear thus in front of him? In _his_ territory?

The draw of his tonfa gets Yamamoto’s attention at least, his head jerking up and eyes sharpening, body caught between fight or flight. Gokudera scrambles out from under him and gets to his feet, and Hibari’s lips curl in a matching snarl—then Yamamoto springs in-between them, rushing through an apology and shoving Gokudera out of the room before retreating down the hall.

Hibari can hear him dragging Gokudera along with him amidst a tirade of curses, and he slams the Reception Room door closed and goes to look out the window, fingers tight on the sill.

Shirts open at the neck and skin blotched pink—he won’t bother with them at the moment. Their punishment for trespassing and mocking discipline will be much more satisfying tomorrow morning after they have had a night to worry over the extent of his retaliation. And his fury will be that much worse.

What he doesn’t expect is for Yamamoto to have his own opinion on how to handle things.

Later that evening, Hibari looks over from his perch on the water tower on the school roof when Yamamoto steps through the stairwell doorway, shinai clutched tight in one hand. He is dressed down in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, but there’s nothing casual about the look in his eye and Hibari lifts one eyebrow in assessment—he’s not surprised often.

“Yo,” Yamamoto says, thrumming with unstable energy held in check.

Hibari waits to see if he’s very brave, or very stupid to come and find him after what he did.

Yamamoto flicks his arm and the shinai transforms into a katana. “You won’t be satisfied without a fight, right? So here I am. Just leave Gokudera alone.”

Hibari scowls at this unacceptable insolence, grinding his teeth. Yamamoto’s grip on his katana is steady, although both wrists sport the baseball team’s navy blue sweat guards, which is proof enough that Yamamoto has spent the last years of his life out in the sports field rather than inside the dojo.

Hibari hops down to the cement, shrugs off his uniform jacket and stalks towards Yamamoto, readying his tonfa before breaking into a run. Yamamoto may believe he came here prepared, but Hibari knows there’s no question about the outcome of this battle—and he won’t hold back.

Yamamoto begins better than expected, and so Hibari spares him nothing, beats him up enough for two, just like he asked, and then beats him some more because Yamamoto keeps getting up and just _won’t stay down_.

At first Hibari does not intend to dole out any serious injuries; the school needs their baseball star after all, the Koshien tournament a month away. But a single flash of memory—Yamamoto’s gentle voice and tender gaze as he and Gokudera break rule after rule right under Discipline Committee Leader’s nose—is enough to keep Hibari’s anger sizzling at the surface, and fueling blow after blow in the name of earned retribution.

Dino and Romario show up before Yamamoto loses consciousness. Hibari doesn’t ask and doesn’t care how the Bucking Horse found out about the scuffle on the rooftop, nor does he care how much the man yells at him for taking things too far after carting the both of them off to the abandoned hospital he still maintains.

If Yamamoto wants to act like an herbivore, let him die like one, and with the Bucking Horse scolding him, breathing down his neck and stinging the wounds on Hibari’s arms and face unnecessarily with antiseptic, Hibari finds no reason not to say as much.

Yamamoto coughs up more blood, and Dino turns away from tending to Hibari as Yamamoto chokes something out about it being all his fault.

Dino gapes, incredulous—because isn’t it obvious who is really the one at fault here?—and Hibari is on his feet in an instant, tonfa poised to shut Yamamoto up for good because he doesn’t need protection from anyone, _ever_.

Dino curses and hustles Hibari immediately out of the double hospital room and into a single next door, three Cavallone men following right behind. But Hibari shoves everyone away from him and heads down the hallway to the exit, muscles sore and body aching from what modicum of damage Yamamoto was able to dish out before being trounced.

The Bucking Horse calls after him, but Hibari ignores it and keeps moving, slamming his way past the building’s double doors and out into the night. Nobody comes after him.

But the damage is done.

Yamamoto and Gokudera’s disgusting display has opened his eyes, and the simple touches from the Cavallone Boss—the sling of an arm around his shoulders, the smiles brushed across his temple, the tone in which the man says his given name—all that Hibari had dismissed up to this point now has a brand new meaning.

And things will never be the same.

—

The idea that two people weaker than he is could know things he doesn’t know _galls_ him.

Hibari has zero interest in the romantic games of the herd, the useless exchanges of gift-wrapped delicacies or sappy flirtations passed in notes and hidden in lockers—such things are ridiculous and should be abolished. And yet, as the chance meetings with Dino Cavallone and his men continue, and the Bucking Horse becomes bolder and more direct with his intentions in actions Hibari has finally learned to recognize … Hibari decides it is time to take matters into his own hands.

His unannounced arrival at Dino’s hotel room causes more of a commotion than he expected. Hibari stands off to the side, arms crossed and brows furrowed while Dino scurries around the suite, finally managing to bundle all the men taking advantage of such spacious western elegance out the door. Flushed from the efforts, Dino leans into the door and clicks the lock.

Hibari lifts a brow.

Dino immediately unlocks the door, laughing and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Ah, er, um. Hello, Kyoya.”

Hibari lets out an irritated huff. Then he walks forward in a straight line, crossing the room and heading directly for the Bucking Horse.

Dino startles and moves towards the grand oak desk at the back of the suite. Hibari mirrors the movements and adjusts to intercept.

Dino puts the desk between them and reaches for the phone receiver. “Why don’t I have some drinks brought up, and then we can have a nice chat about whatever is on your mind—”

Hibari angles around the side of the desk and puts his finger on the button that ends the call. “That won’t be necessary.”

He tugs the hem of his uniform sweater-vest and pulls it off over his head. Dino moves away and winds up tripping backward into the corporate-style leather chair behind the desk. Hibari bends a knee and shoves it down into the plush corner along the outside of Dino’s hip, hands flat on the chair back on either side of Dino’s hunched shoulders.

“K-Kyoya!” Dino’s face looks dismayed. “What are you doing?”

Hibari scowls, glaring. “You don’t _know_?”

Dino splays his tattooed hand on Hibari’s torso, as if he needs something solid on which to brace while their eyes meet. Hibari gives him a chance to answer, but Dino doesn’t say or do anything, just sits there immobile until the whole situation becomes silly and then _worse_—embarrassing.

Hibari stands up, face red, mind changed. “I’m leaving.” He makes it halfway to the door before Dino can stumble after him.

“Kyoya, wait a minute!”

Dino catches hold of his elbow, and with great effort of will Hibari doesn’t shake him off. Dino’s reaction is one of surprise… and then, finally, of understanding.

Hibari goes still, feeling Dino’s arms slide around his body from behind and hold him, trapped. Hibari knows the test for what it is and doesn’t move a muscle, though this sort of closeness goes against his nature in the worst way—in every way.

When whole minutes pass without any painful repercussions, Dino adjusts his hold and shifts around to face him, one arm snug around the back of his shoulders.

“Kyoya?” he says, voice soft and tentative.

Hibari exhales in a huff. “Just _do it_, Cavallone.”

Dino’s expression changes then, from concern to something amused… and then into the kind of superior smugness Hibari hates the most.

Dino moves his free hand to trace over the angry line of Hibari’s brow and then down his cheek. “Oh, _Kyoya_. What will I do with you?”

—

The Bucking Horse takes things slow—too slow.

Every encounter both then and after becomes a lesson, and every lesson’s end opens three new doors in a curriculum of infinite variations that become more and more frustrating to Hibari as time goes on. Each week that passes without that final step allows the Boss of the Cavallone to tighten his grasp and lay a lengthy siege with which to influence every aspect of his life. Hibari has never been one so easily restrained, and he balks against the feeling that both his shoes are fast filling with quicksand.

Despite the frequent suggestions that patience holds its own rewards, Hibari soon reaches his limit and gives the ultimatum. With the look of one who expected defeat all along, the Cavallone Boss concedes. Dino books a suite in a high-class hotel especially for the occasion; Hibari thinks the other place would have been just fine.

On the way to the bed Hibari ignores the flowers and the wine set to chill, any and everything superfluous to the experience and knowledge he was after all along. He is furious that he’s had to wait this long in the first place, and while it seems Dino understands that, Hibari forgets sometimes that Dino was brought up by the Baby and therefore Dino knows how to take his fury and temper it into something else, something that takes most of the night to run its course.

It’s not quite what Hibari expected.

The biggest surprise is that he’d actually want to do it again, as outrageous as that seems. There is something primal in the act that Hibari can no longer ignore, a need gone long denied that should be fed on occasion, and must—he can tell this new appetite will only grow over time, although he also thinks it will always rank second to his constant urge to battle and defeat a worthy opponent.

The new, invisible tie linking him to the Bucking Horse is something he should have expected; but what’s done is done.

The invitations, the spontaneous visits, the presents delivered from Italy, the nights where their sweat-drenched bodies can’t cool off for the tattooed arms holding him too close and too tight for too long…

Sometimes Hibari puts up with it. Most times he doesn’t. And if Dino is unsatisfied by these circumstances, he never says a word although Hibari makes sure he knows the truth: When the Bucking Horse can no longer defeat him in battle, everything ends.

Hibari being Hibari, that day comes sooner rather than later.

—

**[Weaklings should just go decompose.]**

Kusakabe spends more time eating sushi over at Yamamoto Tsuyoshi’s place than is good for him.

Hibari first catches him seated at the sushi counter with Romario. And then when things change, Kusakabe sits alone, chuckling and conversing with Yamamoto senior in that quiet way of his. Hibari notices the bond that forms between them, and if it weren’t for the interesting tidbits Kusakabe is able to bring back to the Foundation by maintaining such a friendship, Hibari would have bitten the both of them to death: the one for mingling too close to anything remotely connected to the Vongola, and the other for wooing his head assistant with raw fish and a loose tongue.

But two men are not a crowd, and so Hibari can’t be bothered to deal with them. Thus, without meaning to, Hibari also learns whenever a change takes place in Yamamoto Takeshi’s life.

The thing with Gokudera lasts until Yamamoto gets a scholarship to a top Japanese University with a competitive baseball team, and his choice to step back from Vongola affairs starts months of fighting before Gokudera calls things off. Hibari couldn’t care less about their personal problems, but he does think Yamamoto’s decision is a waste; its probably the first time he and the Storm Guardian have ever agreed on anything.

The breakup is ugly and drawn out, causing many awkward problems for Sawada and the Baby. Hibari ignores all of it unless it interferes with Namimori’s peace, and as he’s already beaten Yamamoto to a pulp once there is nothing left for him to do.

If the herbivore has decided to cut off his claws and pretend to be one of the flock, Hibari will gladly deny his existence.

Something unexpected happens in the years while Yamamoto is away at school, though. Kusakabe doesn’t know all the details—maybe there are some things Yamamoto doesn’t tell his father—although everyone learns soon enough that it is Superbi Squalo’s hand that has been reaching all the way over from Italy and, against all odds, has managed to entice Yamamoto back into the Mafia’s clutches.

Hibari is too distracted by the appearance of curious box-weaponry, unlocked by the even more curious powers held within Mafia rings, to pay attention to the possible rebirth of an opponent he’d once expected to become a worthy rival. While Yamamoto takes up residence with the Varia, Hibari begins taking the groundwork for his Foundation to the next level—which leaves him no time to bother with any other affairs.

Once, Hibari happens to see Yamamoto at the Varia mansion, a chance occurrence that interrupts his business with Lussuria. Yamamoto, taller than Hibari remembers from their school days, streaks through the hallway after a bellowing Squalo, bodies shirtless and blades crossing in a blur.

The change in the Rain Guardian is so immense Hibari is speechless, looking on while the frenzied battle causes destruction and chaos in all directions, awakening a thirst for blood that hasn’t risen in Hibari for far too long. Hibari’s muscles flex under his suit, his skin itching to join in and see what _this_ Yamamoto is made of… and also what curious strengths this long haired Second Emperor of the Sword possesses to have brought about such a transformation.

Hibari unconsciously takes two steps forward before Lussuria appears beside him and gently presses a hand to his shoulder, warning that it’s best not to interfere.

Hibari watches the battle slip away down the hall and around the corner, and with more crashes and booms and enraged screams filtering back in the wake, Lussuria winks and adds that it’s an unspoken policy within the Varia to keep their distance when Squalo’s training sessions reach his private chambers.

The unexpected glimpse of Yamamoto’s half-honed abilities cuts into Hibari’s awareness, so that he concludes his business and returns to the Vongola headquarters to fetch Kusakabe before he realizes he didn’t assassinate Lussuria for touching him.

—

In under a year Hibari’s secret Foundation becomes a thriving entity hidden within global shadows.

The work is rewarding but takes its toll, and Hibari finally breaks his constant travels for a brief stay in Namimori, the one place he can call home. Since these visits are increasingly rare, he sets aside an afternoon to visit his favorite place in the town and climbs the steps up to the roof of Nami Middle School, only to find that his preferred spot has already been taken.

Yamamoto Takeshi sits atop the school’s water tower, suit jacket and tie folded to the side next to the remains of convenience store food and an open milk carton. He turns away from the sounds of the baseball game down below and pushes his sunglasses up before smiling his greetings, blue button-down shirt open at the neck, and a pink comma of a scar marring his chin.

Hibari’s gaze narrows, recalling rumors that the Varia boss sent the Rain Guardian packing some time ago, and then closed the doors of the mansion to all non-Varia, permanently. With Sawada’s underground base in Namimori not yet complete, of course Yamamoto would return to his father’s house.

But that doesn’t give him permission to take liberties on top of Hibari’s school.

“Yamamoto Takeshi. What do you think you are doing?” Hibari walks out onto the cement rooftop, wind rustling through his hair.

Yamamoto brushes the sandwich crumbs from his hands and hops down to the ground, Shigure Kintoki held at his side in a loose grip—the man must have been waiting for him to show up.

“Yo, Hibari-san,” Yamamoto says, resting the shinai across his shoulders in a casual stance and hooking his sunglasses into his shirt pocket as if they will be safe there. “Beautiful day for a baseball game, don’t you think?”

“What makes you think I came here for baseball?”

Yamamoto shrugs, still smiling. “Then shall we duel for the best seat in the house?”

Hibari says nothing for a moment. Only those with a death wish seek him out and ask for a fight.

But just like the last time they stood on a roof like this, Yamamoto’s eyes show only determination and confidence. Maybe Yamamoto wants to test him. Maybe he’s looking to test himself. Hibari can feel the pressure of Yamamoto’s killing intent—sharp and ripe—released incrementally as they stand and look at one another.

It’s an invitation Hibari would be a fool to refuse, and he cocks his head, assessing.

If Yamamoto wants a fight, a fight he will get. Hibari lifts his right hand and channels his energy into his Vongola Ring, bathing the roof in a flare of purple light so intense that Yamamoto grins, and then laughs outright from utter excitement.

Back in junior high, in that moment when Yamamoto swiveled his feet and caught the end of Hibari’s tonfa—something he never should have been able to do—Hibari decided that this person might be an interesting prey.

Now, years later, Hibari is more than willing to act as a measuring stick to find out the true extent of Yamamoto Takeshi’s growth.

Hibari opens the box containing his tonfa. “Shall we begin?”

_And don’t disappoint me_, he thinks, _If you intend to live._

—

It’s obvious in the first five minutes that the roof at Nami-Middle can not withstand a fight of their caliber, just as it is obvious from the shrieks of students and parents in the baseball field below that they have attracted a bit too much attention.

Adrenaline thrumming through every part of him, Hibari is loath to postpone such fun in order to relocate. Yamamoto is also unwilling to stop—eyes like scalpels and sword just as eager to cut deep. But Hibari isn’t going to let that happen.

He bursts forward and interrupts Yamamoto’s swing, and Yamamoto deftly follows the movement and counters Hibari’s strikes one after the other. The air currents generated bend the roof’s perimeter fence outward; Hibari lunges and Yamamoto skips to the side to avoid destroying a section of chain-links in the nick of time.

“That was close,” Yamamoto comments lightly, though his gaze and stance are anything but.

“Don’t you dare damage my school.” Hibari begins walking towards him, closing the distance in measured steps.

Yamamoto chuckles. “Sorry but…” He changes his stance. “I’m not satisfied by those restrictions.”

Hibari stops. “Is that a threat, Yamamoto Takeshi?”

Yamamoto shakes his head, lips parting in a grin. A swirl of debris circles his form and then whips into frenzy from a sudden release of power—power Yamamoto has held in check all this time.

“I want to fight you seriously, Hibari. And I don’t believe we can do that here.”

Hibari smirks. “Your full strength will not be enough.”

Yamamoto pushes more power at Hibari, radiating a pressure that causes further turbulence in the air between them. “We won’t know unless we try, right?”

Hibari closes his eyes and sucks in a lungful of Yamamoto’s delicious, predatory energy, unnerving in its potency. “Hmmm. You just might be worth savoring, Yamamoto Takeshi.”

“Heh.” Yamamoto stands at his full height. “Then shall we continue this elsewhere?”

Hibari retrieves the box from his pocket and the tonfa disappear inside with a snap. Yamamoto flicks his wrist and the katana returns to an ordinary, inert shinai, and then he retrieves his jacket and tie.

Without a word they exit the school roof and hurry down the stairs, the wail of police sirens in the distance coming closer.

Yamamoto slips his suit jacket back on and leads the way to the street out in front of Nami-Middle, heading straight for the only motorcycle parked along the curb. Hibari pauses, eyeing the sleek lines of the powerful Ducati Monster and then catching the passenger helmet Yamamoto tosses to him.

“You’ve ridden one of these before, right Hibari?” Yamamoto grins, strapping the shinai to his back and pulling on his motorcycle gloves.

Hibari rolls his eyes before putting on the helmet. “Don’t insult me.”

Yamamoto nods and starts the engine. Hibari slides into place behind Yamamoto despite his aversion to letting anyone be in front of him, only for the sake of seeing whether Yamamoto is worthy of such an elite machine—or if it’s nothing more than the typical weak male posturing that bores him to death.

“Don’t fall off,” Yamamoto warns, tipping the bike up in a one-wheeled stunt before zooming off into traffic.

Hibari’s heart pounds behind his ribs, such is the insane speed and accuracy of Yamamoto’s driving. The thrilling moments weaving through cars and buses on the way out of downtown Namimori seem to last an eternity, Hibari’s knuckles bone-white where they grip Yamamoto’s lapels. And then all too soon they arrive in an abandoned baseball field high on a hill, nothing but rundown bleachers and a circle of forest stretching downward in all directions.

They dismount, and Yamamoto casually pulls off his gloves and helmet, taking his time. “So how’d you like the ride—”

Hibari bashes him across the face with his tonfa, and then flips off the borrowed helmet and drops it on the ground in the correct sequence for two people about to continue their battle.

“Haha, jeez,” Yamamoto gets up from the dirt and draws his shinai, blood trickling down the corner of his smiling mouth.

Hibari senses a rain-attribute Swallow circling above him and smirks; Yamamoto released it so quick he almost missed it.

“That’s more like it,” Hibari says, taking out another box weapon as Yamamoto’s sword shimmers and then glows with blue of a gorgeous clarity.

“I’ve never seen your box weapons, Hibari.” Yamamoto’s eyes sparkle. “What are they?”

Hibari cocks his head. “Come and find out for yourself.”

Yamamoto charges forward with a look that eliminates any possibility of further conversation.

—

What began as a warm-up on the school roof becomes an all-out war of breathtaking beauty and endurance, no holds barred and all limits crushed and then surpassed, over and over again. Hibari smiles as wounds pile up on his body, layers of bruises and cuts blossoming in tandem with the injuries he wraps around the Rain Guardian like a razor wire mesh he then pulls tight. Battered and bleeding, suits in tatters, neither of them let up for an instant.

The tranquility of Yamamoto’s rain flames inhibits the usual growth of Hibari’s hedgehogs, locking their box weapons together in a maddening standstill. The animals whine and growl in frustration, but Hibari only gets more and more excited, determined to find the chinks in Yamamoto’s armor and pry him open so he can sink his fangs into soft flesh and tear him apart.

But this is not the one-sided battle fought on a night back in high school. Yamamoto Takeshi has more than grown into the body of a man—he’s matured into a bonafide warrior worthy of a slow and deliberate death.

Hibari licks his lips and uses the box he reserves for only the most exciting opponents, the ones that thrill him like the Baby. His Vongola ring flame burns white hot, the box trembling against his palm and cracking dangerously like a fragile bird-egg as he shoves all that power inside it. Light surges from in-between his bleeding fingers and forces Yamamoto to squint, and then to step backward in caution as Hibari’s Needle-Sphere Form: Reversed bursts out, expanding to push everything besides the two of them outside the airtight, impenetrable barrier.

Hibari watches Yamamoto’s eyes first flick over the intimidating, isolated space and then glare his questions.

“Your box animals are safe,” Hibari comments, guessing the man’s foremost concern—although on that score Yamamoto is quite incorrect. “It’s just you and me now, Yamamoto Takeshi. Your strength versus mine. No interference. No interruptions. No one and nothing to save you.”

“So I get to see your real skills, huh?” Yamamoto takes up his favored stance, no pretense of a smile on his face. “Interesting.”

“That’s my line,” Hibari says, and bolts forward.

The air thins with every passing second; Hibari disregards the ache in his lungs and concentrates on bringing Yamamoto down. It’s a surprise that Yamamoto doesn’t ask about the decline in oxygen levels, but Hibari isn’t worried. Yamamoto has likely figured it out, and in the end he will succumb to the harsh reality of Needle-Sphere Form: Reversed, spending his last moments crawling on the ground in agony, as he should.

Yamamoto fights through the discomfort for longer than Hibari would have guessed, and it becomes increasingly difficult to continue blocking his relentless attacks. The sounds of their labored breathing echo inside the dome in a surreal rhythm as their limbs begin to resist given instructions, and their attacks and counterattacks are reduced to fumbled grips and unsteady footwork.

Hibari frowns, furious that the spark in Yamamoto’s eyes still shows such immense concentration. He lunges at Yamamoto and kicks the katana from his hand in a wild arc, stumbling once to keep his balance—but Yamamoto grabs onto his suit jacket with his empty hands and lurches into him, taking him to the ground.

The tonfa fall from Hibari’s grasp outside his reach as he lands on his shoulder. His vision blurs in and out of focus, and he’s lightheaded from the fall, but Hibari reaches straight for Yamamoto’s throat. He’ll end this right now, Yamamoto’s skin moist with sweat and marred by the blood trailing from the gashes at his lip and brow.

Hibari shoves and Yamamoto buckles under him and then grunts, hands yanking on the back of Hibari’s suit jacket and grappling for the right leverage either to pull or kick him off. There’s no oxygen left, no benefit from the attempt to breathe except they can’t fight the biological instinct, chests rising and falling at a frantic pace in this last spurt of their battle.

Yamamoto’s panting breath is hot on Hibari’s cheek, and suddenly goose-bumps break out all down Hibari’s back from the heightened sensations brought on by near-asphyxiation. Hibari tries to get up, yanking on Yamamoto’s hair to get him to let go—but it has the opposite effect and Yamamoto groans and thrashes under Hibari without warning, a grinding of twined limbs that tips them over the line between the ecstasy of a death match and the euphoria of climbing towards sexual gratification.

On the cusp of consciousness, Hibari’s senses come alive under the technicolor of fast-fading sight and inhibitions. There’s no need for hesitation, no need to resist; Hibari bends down and swipes the flat of his tongue along Yamamoto’s face, licking fresh blood from the cut on Yamamoto’s mouth and shuddering. Yamamoto’s hands slide down Hibari’s back and lower, fingers digging into his flesh with the last of their strength and Hibari turns his head just enough to engage Yamamoto’s mouth and tongue with his teeth when everything goes black.

Hibari jerks against the sensations of falling and then all around him is absolute silence—thick and cloying and unmovable as the roots of a Sakura tree binding a corpse beneath it for eternity.

—

Hibari’s first thought upon waking is that he can’t remember who passed out first.

He blinks open his eyes, and forces his body to ease past the immediate pain in his head caused by the overhead light in the room. Then he recognizes his surroundings, part of the medical wing inside The Foundation’s hideout under Namimori’s shrine. Hibari pushes up on one elbow, finding it painful but nothing he can’t stand. From the pull on his skin from support tape wound around his ribs and the bandages scattered over the rest of him, he knows someone must have treated his wounds while he was out, and dressed him in a clean yukata.

He sits up quickly, checking to find that his ring is still on his finger; he sees his box weapons on the bedside table, safe and sound, which is a small relief. Hibari inclines his head and pops something in his neck, feeling much better afterwards.

There’s only the one infirmary bed in the room, so Hibari shifts his legs over the side and gets up, determined to find Yamamoto and learn which of them won—he refuses to let another moment pass without knowing the final outcome.

Kusakabe slides the door open and blinks in surprise to find him standing. “Kyo-san! A-are you okay?”

Hibari glares at the implication, and Kusakabe hastily waves the question away as he enters the room. “Shall I get anything for you? Tea, or food, Kyo-san?”

“Where is he?”

Kusakabe hesitates.

“_Tetsu._” Hibari moves towards him, mood deteriorating rapidly by the second.

“He’s… just down the hall.”

Hibari frowns.

“I’ll take full responsibility for bringing him inside,” Kusakabe bows his head, penitent. “He was in pretty bad shape, Kyo-san, so I didn’t think you’d want the police to find him like that, and Sawada and his father would also make a fuss if we sent him—”

Hibari waves him to silence and moves down the hallway to the room with a Foundation member standing guard. When he sees Hibari coming he bows and slips away without the need for a command.

Hibari shoves the door open with a loud thwack. Yamamoto sits up abruptly, visible wounds dressed in similar fashion along his arms and face from what Hibari can see over the black edges of the borrowed yukata.

“Yamamoto Takeshi.” Hibari scowls, shutting the door behind him and stalking forward. “How long have you been awake?”

Yamamoto gets up, favoring his left side and hiding it well. “Not long.”

“Hnn.” Hibari cocks his head, crossing into Yamamoto’s personal space. “Was it you who passed out before me?”

Yamamoto frowns.

“Answer me.”

“Well that’s just it,” Yamamoto says. His brows furrow, finger itching the plaster beside his mouth. “I can’t remember either.”

Hibari tsks in irritation, realizing he left his weapons in the other room. No matter. He cracks the knuckles of one hand, and then the other. “Yamamoto Takeshi. I will bite you to death, right here, right now.”

Yamamoto ducks away from the first punch and then catches his elbow, trying to fend him off. “Do we have to solve it that way?”

Hibari glares, and then his skin prickles at the first stirrings of Yamamoto’s answering—and contradictory—battle aura. “What do you think?”

Yamamoto squeezes his hand tighter. “I think it’ll be a better fight when we don’t have so many wounds.”

“Speak for yourself.” Hibari pulls his arm away but Yamamoto’s fingers dig harder into his joint, backing the warning with throbbing pain.

Furious, Hibari yanks his arm and angles to knock him off balance, but Yamamoto sidesteps and pivots in a flash of footwork that twists Hibari’s arm behind his back and allows Yamamoto to pull him in snug against his body. He feels Yamamoto’s breath ghost over his ear, traitorous goose bumps erupting down his spine.

“There are other ways we can finish this, Hibari,” Yamamoto murmurs, free hand angling beneath the fold of Hibari’s yukata.

“You must be suicidal.” Hibari drives his elbow into Yamamoto’s damaged ribs, knowing it will hurt him badly.

Yamamoto grunts and lets go—they face off, again, the air thick with killing intent. Yamamoto chuckles, and his mouth forms a crooked grin, but those eyes say _“Gotcha”_. Hibari clenches his teeth tight on the twin urges that have sprung to life inside him, for while he can’t remember which of them passed out first in the end, what his body does remember is the teasing taste of those final moments, as unfinished between them as everything that came before. And Yamamoto wants him just as much.

Hibari stands there, rigid, sick with the desire to beat Yamamoto’s face in with his bare fists and at the same time wanting to run both hands down his naked abdomen and back up again. Yamamoto’s thoughts must be similar, eyes velvet dark and yet darting to the side where the handle of his Shigure Kintoki is visible, just out of reach where it lies across the side table.

The decision is simple.

Hibari grabs Yamamoto with both hands and shoves him into the locked door of the medical supply cabinet, rattling the contents of the metal drawers inside. Yamamoto flinches and braces his bare feet; Hibari yanks Yamamoto’s yukata open and presses impatient hands over the muscles and sinews wrapped underneath the gauze bandages on Yamamoto’s chest, checking every inch of his torso for the soft belly of an herbivore and finding nothing but the taut and tempting form of a predator. Hibari _snarls_.

“You too,” Yamamoto insists, reaching for the sash of Hibari’s yukata and pulling at the knot.

But Hibari holds the man still and bends to swipe his tongue across Yamamoto’s navel, feeling the answering ripple of stomach muscles contracting in desire as he licks his way up to Yamamoto’s throat. Then he hooks Yamamoto’s foot and pushes him down onto the floor in a tumble of cloth and limbs.

The first touches are fierce and brutal, a deliberate aggravation of bruises and scrapes; the pain feeds more than one huger and leads to increasingly delicious explorations with fingers and teeth. When every movement sears, and each tongue-tangled kiss intoxicates and incites, it’s impossible to determine just which of them dominates the other. While it’s still possible to think and formulate a strategy, Hibari makes sure that he is the one to thrust into Yamamoto and make him climax first as there is no other way to claim the day’s victory.

Yamamoto takes in every bit of him, rearing up for more and then proving he can match any punishment Hibari chooses to administer, now, and for all time. Yamamoto frantically pulls Hibari into his lap and drives all thoughts from his mind except the surreal intensity of this physical connection, and the unique ache of muscles in strange places straining towards mutual and exquisite release.

Sex with Yamamoto is like nothing Hibari has experienced before. Matched in stamina and appetite, Hibari finds every sensation electric, every moment a thrill that leaves the molecules in his body engorged.

It’s good. _So good_, Hibari can’t imagine it being like this with anyone else—and though the thought is worrying in the back of his mind, somehow _Yamamoto_ does not worry him.

In the end, Yamamoto accepts his loss without argument, although after what they have shared in those long hours of physical exertions, it’s more of a concession—albeit a concession Hibari decides he can live with.

They’ll do this again. All of it—the fighting and the fucking—for as surely as Hibari’s palette has been ruined by this feast, so has he ruined Yamamoto Takeshi.

Which means the real battles between them are only just beginning.

—

The repercussions are not so simple.

The room they use winds up in complete disarray, the bed flipped on its side and baskets of clean bandages upended and unrolled in every direction, some of them soiled by lubricant and other things no one would dare say aloud. Hibari leaves Yamamoto in the mess as soon as he can stand, heading for the shower in his quarters at the other end of the building, the evidence of ten thousand burning kisses still present on his mouth.

He passes Kusakabe on the way and demands that Yamamoto be blindfolded and then released in some random part of Namimori, guarding against any potential breach of their hideout’s security. Such is his haste to get clean and take a long nap, Hibari misses the awkward flush on Kusakabe’s cheeks, just as Hibari is oblivious to the smug and satisfied expression reflected in his bathroom mirrors and present on his face for the next two days.

Three months later, Yamamoto appears in the little town outside Venice where Hibari’s Foundation has a research facility.

Hibari is in a lab downstairs and has asked not to be disturbed, so nobody in the Foundation knows how to handle the sudden presence of Yamamoto Takeshi, or his ringing of the front doorbell. After an hour Kusakabe makes the call to let Yamamoto in, temporarily, and another hour later he risks interrupting Hibari long enough to inform him of the situation. But by then it’s too late—Hibari can tell as soon as he steps out from the lab stairwell that Yamamoto has won them all over, Kusakabe included. Maybe Kusakabe especially, considering his strange friendship with Yamamoto’s father.

None of this stops Hibari from arming his cloud-enflamed tonfa and charging forward—Yamamoto is obviously asking for it, and any Foundation members dumb enough to get in the way deserve what they get.

Hibari doesn’t know _how_ Yamamoto finds him. By all rights it should be impossible. But what Hibari doesn’t have to guess is _why_ Yamamoto finds him—it is evident from the first that Yamamoto feels the same pull he does, a hook snagged through their bellies and linking them with invisible fishing line that will only stretch so far and for so long.

When Yamamoto shows up at any one of the Foundation’s research facilities, he never barges in or takes over, nor does he allow Hibari to send him away. He has a way of hiding in plain sight, never in the way but always present, at home in any room as if he simply belonged. Hibari would rather he not show up at all; such things are normally disruptive to the organized structure of his and his subordinate’s lives. But Yamamoto being… _Yamamoto_, there just isn’t a good enough excuse for Hibari to turn him away or kick him out once he gets a foot in the door. Especially when Yamamoto plays Frisbee with his dog Jirou in the Foundation lands behind their facilities, and converts all Hibari’s subordinates into friends who stash buckets of baseballs in hall closets _just in case_.

When Yamamoto is close, the air condenses. Even a wispy cirrus cloud, high up in the earth’s atmosphere, will respond to the presence of moisture in a slow, agonizing process, thickening into wild cumulus thunderheads that will eventually saturate and sink, low and heavy within reach. Yamamoto doesn’t have to do anything but wait under the same roof to affect Hibari’s awareness, an incomprehensible force that draws him nearer and nearer with a patience and persistence as strong as hurricane winds or the swollen river currents in a flash flood.

Where Dino’s affection smothered, Yamamoto’s is steady and confident, allowing Hibari space enough to breathe while trapped in the thunderstorm. And yet it was Dino that taught Hibari the difference between a meal and a feast, and that there is a reward to waiting: one gives up the smaller prey when aiming for the biggest conquest.

Hibari’s younger self would be too impulsive, too violence minded to understand what someone like Yamamoto can offer and make an informed choice. Biting to death is not the same as bleeding to the last drop—and after having tasted Yamamoto both ways, Hibari vastly prefers the latter.

Yamamoto learns quick, both by instinct and by practice. He learns when to back off and when to press forward at any cost; he learns which things trigger Hibari’s memories of the Bucking Horse, and he finds new ways to distract and bring about intense pleasure in something all their own.

Just as Yamamoto can taste the remnants of his early experiences with Dino, Hibari catches glimpses of Gokudera’s shadow when Yamamoto’s skin blotches pink and he slides a hand underneath Hibari’s shirt, shoving him down on the Italian leather sofa in the parlor. And sometimes—not so often—when things get a little too rough and the line between lust and wrath smears with the sweat of their bared skin and smarts with a backhand blow, Hibari thinks he might catch the smell of Shark under Yamamoto’s beating pulse, one of the only times Yamamoto’s infinite tranquility turns rabid enough to disturb him.

It disturbs Yamamoto too. But even that part of Yamamoto, the part that has learned first to overstep that personal boundary into dark, deep waters, and then second to pull back, Hibari finds intriguing.

These things in the past have made them who they are; without them, they might not match so well. Yamamoto’s strength of will, and his enjoyment in living so close to that edge is what calls to Hibari, both a siren song from one carnivore to another, and the answering howl of the ultimate mate. He’s waited so long for this.

And so a year goes by, and then most of another, made up of chance meetings in-between Family and Foundation business in which he and Yamamoto infinitely repeat their duel—eyes locked and weapons honed, bodies brimming with urges best not suppressed.

—

**[Hey. We have unfinished business.]**

Hibari has a bad feeling when he receives a formal summons sent by Sawada Tsunayoshi, one that requests his immediate presence at Vongola headquarters in Milan.

It’s the first time Sawada has ever done such a thing; never once has he called all six Vongola ring bearers to the same location, preferring to handle any business he may have with them on an individual basis. Not that Hibari gives him a choice about how or when their interactions will take place.

This summons bothers him—why now? Hibari doesn’t like it, but if his last conversation with the Baby has anything to do with this he decides it’s better to go. For one, he might get to fight Sawada without holding back. And for another, it’s been too long since he’s seen the Baby anyhow. He throws the RSVP card into the garbage and makes the arrangements himself.

The overnight flight to the smaller airport in neighboring Bergamo is relatively uneventful, the plane touching down at barely half-five in the morning. No one should know to expect him, but standing there waiting at the gate is none other than Yamamoto Takeshi, wearing the usual friendly smile with his sleek black suit. Hibari stops right where he is, half amused and half furious—totally pissed. What _are_ these weird connections of Yamamoto’s that he can learn such things so easily?

“Hey.” Yamamoto lifts his hand in greeting, surrounded by the bustle of summertime tourists and natives in a swirl of colors and dialects, despite the early hour.

Hibari walks right past him.

Yamamoto’s long legs help him catch up and fall into step. “I think the baggage claim for your flight is over that way. What about your luggage?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Ah.” Yamamoto slides his hands in his pockets and walks beside him in what he probably considers companionable silence.

When they exit the airport, Hibari looks around for a taxi, and Yamamoto gets out his sunglasses.

“I have a car right over there, if you prefer.”

Hibari tilts his head. “What, no motorcycle this time?”

Yamamoto grins. “I upgraded.”

Hibari frowns, doubtful.

“C’mon. It’s faster,” Yamamoto jingles the keys in his pocket, then pauses, thoughtful. “Unless you’re feeling queasy from the plane?”

“How long do you intend to keep me waiting here in this crowd?” Hibari snaps, irritated by Yamamoto’s uncanny intuition.

Yamamoto smirks and leads the way, and Hibari doesn’t even check what make or model the car is before buckling his seatbelt tight and planning a slow and torturous death if Yamamoto’s driving causes him to be sick. Yamamoto pulls out his phone and taps a brief text message while pulling on his seatbelt, then he turns the key and mutes the radio.

“Don’t worry,” Yamamoto murmurs, gunning the engine. “I’ll take it easy. We’ll be at headquarters in no time.”

And just like that they speed off into the blinding Italian sunrise.

—

Forty minutes and two security checkpoints later they pull up into the front courtyard of a massive structure of Italian design: the hidden location of the Vongola headquarters.

Hibari shoves open the car door and climbs out to stand upright on the gravel drive, regaining his bearings on solid ground. He inhales the fresh, early-morning Italian breeze, eyes closed and hair blowing across his forehead; the irritating nausea of nonstop travel fades blessedly into the back of his awareness.

A butler of the Ninth’s directs the two of them around the side to a patio with tables and umbrellas, adjacent to a garden. Not all of the Guardians are there, seated and drinking espresso, but Sasagawa and Lambo make enough noise to account for Chrome Dokuro’s share even with their mouths crammed full of breakfast pastries. Gokudera looks particularly bad, sulking behind dark shades and sitting in the seat closest to the staff member operating the espresso machine, fingers clutched around his ceramic _doppio_ cup. Obviously not a morning person, that one.

Yamamoto enters the courtyard first, and as he does so Gokudera rolls his eyes.

“So _you’re_ the reason we’re up so fucking early? Figures,” Gokudera lets go of his cup long enough to tap a cigarette out from his pack and grasp it with his lips. “Always inconveniencing others—”

Hibari steps around Yamamoto’s taller form and Gokudera stops mid-sentence—and then sits up straight, significantly more alert.

“Yeah, I guess it is pretty early,” Yamamoto chuckles, smoothing over Gokudera’s abrupt silence, although even Hibari can tell there’s something tense about the whole scene now, Sasagawa and Lambo gaping while their mouths are stuffed.

Hibari scowls and ignores the lot of them, weaving through empty tables and heading directly to the mansion’s glass double doors. He intends to find Sawada so they can get this dreadful meeting over with.

Sawada Tsunayoshi is already on his way down to assemble the group when Hibari reaches the stairs in the grand entryway.

“Ah! Hibari-san!” Sawada rushes over and then stops short, deciding not to offer his hand after all in what Hibari agrees is a smart decision.

“Please go on ahead—you remember where my office is?”

Hibari humphs, and begins to walk up the curved, elegant staircase.

“I’ll bring everyone shortly, so please make yourself at home, Hibari-san.” Sawada’s footsteps hurry away.

Hibari finds Sawada’s office without much effort, a large open room with a regal, antique oak desk and matching chairs at one end for formal meetings, and a group of angled couches and plush armchairs at the other end for more casual affairs, arranged neatly before a stone fireplace.

He spots Chrome standing off alone behind the desk by a set of tall windows, her petite, suited form framed by burgundy drapes. She turns to him and smiles, at once beautiful and cryptic, her timid demeanor evoking the usual traces of something sinister that sets his teeth on edge. Hibari spares her a silent glare and then takes a spot in the opposite corner where he can see the entire room, his arms crossed and his shoulder braced into the expensive paneling.

When Sawada Tsunayoshi returns with the rest of his Guardians, and then locks the door before taking a seat at his desk—the Baby nowhere to be found—Hibari’s bad feeling becomes an acute foreboding.

“I have made a decision about the future of the Vongola Family,” Sawada begins, fingers laced tight before him. “For all our sakes, here, today, we will destroy the Vongola Rings.”

Sawada’s announcement is a complete shock. Hibari isn’t the only one to be appalled.

“D-_destroy_ the Vongola rings?!” Gokudera repeats, stunned.

“I’m sure this is quite unexpected,” Sawada drops his eyes to his folded hands for a moment, and then lifts his head. “But I have thought this through, and I know this is the right decision. Things have to change, and the changes will begin today, here and now.”

“What are you saying, Sawada?” Sasagawa thrusts his fist in the air. “How can we destroy something so important!”

Gokudera rounds on him. “Don’t just start shouting at the Tenth!”

“I will shout when the situation calls for it!” Sasagawa moves towards Gokudera. “This is too extreme! These rings are far too precious—dammit, Sawada, I don’t understand any of this!”

“Watch your mouth, you moron!” Gokudera squares his shoulders. “If the Tenth says to do it then we do it!”

“Guys…” Sawada tries to interject, holding up his hands.

“You have a whole bunch of other rings, Gokudera,” Sasagawa yells even louder. “I only have this ring of sun and I, Sasagawa Ryohei, do not agree to give it up!”

“I don’t want to give mine up either,” Lambo whines, pouting with both his thirteen year old voice and body. “This isn’t fair—this plan is _stupid_.”

Gokudera whirls around. “What the hell did you just say?!”

“I said it’s stupid, stupid Gokudera,” Lambo sticks out his tongue.

“Why you—!”

“Sawada! I demand we settle this with fists!” Sasagawa roars.

Sawada pushes up from his chair and slaps his hands down on his desk, silencing the room. “Enough!”

Between Sawada’s hands sits the original rectangular Vongola ring holder Hibari hasn’t seen in more than eight years, the sky ring already held captive in the center.

“Enough,” Sawada repeats, looking at each of them. “I understand how you feel, but this is the only way.”

“Tsuna.” Yamamoto approaches the desk, voice calm enough although his trademark smile has slipped away into a mask Hibari isn’t sure he’s ever seen before.

“Are you sure about this?” Yamamoto asks. “Have you thought about how we will protect the Family if our strength is cut down like this?”

“If anything happens to Kyoko—!”

“Shut-up you boxing freak—!”

Sawada pitches his voice above the rest. “—This _is_ to protect the Family. These Mafia rings have been the cause of bloodshed for far too long; even now they are destroying this world and making it something… I don’t think it was ever supposed to be like this! And I won’t allow the rings to continue putting us at risk. I believe in _us_—” Tsuna presses a hand to the center of his chest. “—In our allies, and the strengths within each one of you. I won’t have this Family targeted or torn apart over bits of metal. Not while I’m alive to stop it. Not even after I’m dead.”

“Tenth…” Gokudera clenches his hands into fists, eyes lowered in conflicting emotions.

“Please, I don’t want us to argue.” Sawada straightens up, pale, hands at his sides. “This is my final decision, as Vongola’s _Decimo_.”

_Therefore any who disobey will be marked as traitors and exiled._

Hibari’s eyes narrow, a hush falling over the room. Sawada is remarkably firm for one showing visible signs of distress, which only makes Hibari that much more pissed off.

“This isn’t just about the rings.” Hibari pushes away from the wall and walks forward, standing just out of striking distance from the other Guardians where he won’t be quite so tempted. “You’re asking for the Vongola box weapons as well.”

Gokudera and Sasagawa gasp, heads snapping to the Tenth with the shock of realization. Hibari glances to Yamamoto and finds his visage stern and serious; their eyes meet and then part, both of them looking to Sawada.

“Yes.” Sawada sighs, lifting the lid of the oversized leather box on his desk with pre-made notches for twenty-four boxes, the orange sky box sunk deep in its place right in the center. The empty holes around it look like waiting graves.

“The Vongola boxes—and affiliated boxes—can’t be opened without the rings. They will be kept in this and put in a secure storage area here at headquarters.”

Sasagawa begins pacing in frustration, bandaged hands pulling at tufts of his hair. “I can’t believe this!”

Gokudera clears his throat. “Tenth… the fighting in this era… if we don’t have rings or powerful boxes…” He gestures in the air, helpless.

“We can’t protect the Family unarmed, Tsuna.” Yamamoto finishes for him. “Regular weapons are no match for box technology.”

Gokudera shoots Yamamoto a look Hibari can not see.

“I agree,” Sawada nods. “We still need to be ready to fight, if necessary. I’ve negotiated new custom boxes, but they aren’t ready yet. What I have today are these new rings for each of you, the best replacements I could find.”

He points along the front of the desk where six Italian leather boxes sit, the kind found in high-class jewelry stores in Florence and made for engagement rings or other such tokens. Only these all bear the crest of the Vongola embossed in gold leaf, with a tiny gold flourish on the front to indicate affinity.

“Replacement? There is no replacement,” Hibari challenges. “The Vongola rings can not be compared to any others.”

The Foundation’s research has confirmed as much.

Sawada meets his eyes, proving that he already knew this information. “That is exactly why they must be destroyed.”

“Tsuna…” Yamamoto begins, then closes his mouth.

“But Tenth …” Gokudera jumps in, running a shaky hand through his hair. “These—these rings represent our bond to the Family. If we destroy them we lose our connection, our status within the Vongola as Guardians, so… can’t we at least keep half? The rings were stored in halves for years. The flames won’t activate unless the ring is complete. So wouldn’t only half need to be destroyed?”

Sawada shakes his head, his mouth attempting a smile and faltering. “We can leave no traces of the rings if we want to keep our Family safe. And even without the rings, we are still _Vongole_. That will not change, Gokudera. I promise you—we will always be Family.”

“I still don’t like this at all!” Sasagawa resumes his frantic pacing, bandaged fists anxious and restless.

Hibari cuts in, patience wearing thin. “And just how do you intend to destroy them, Sawada Tsunayoshi? The rings can withstand even the purest flames of the highest resolve—surely you don’t believe it’s possible to destroy them.”

Sawada opens a drawer to his right. “We’ll do it with this.” He holds up a pair of metal cutters.

Hibari’s mood blackens; how barbaric.

Sawada straightens his shoulders. “Or I will do it, if you don’t want to do it yourself. For all their powers, they are just rings in the end.” He makes it sound almost, _almost_ convincing.

Sawada sets the cutter down on the desk. Everyone is silent, focused on the latex grip of the handle, and the jut of the curved blades designed to snip through tempered steel with the ease of a stick passed through the filaments of a spider web. Every face seems to be caught in stages between repulsion and fear, or a bit of both, until Hibari can’t stand it a moment more.

“Fine.” Hibari takes brisk steps through the others, squeezing the ring from his finger. He throws it to Sawada. “Do what you want. The less that ties me to you people, the better.”

Sawada catches the ring, and frowns.

Beside Hibari, Gokudera trembles in the beginnings of an eruption, caught between the need to lash out and the desire not to make a scene in front of the Tenth. But Hibari is beyond caring what any of them do.

“I have never needed that thing,” Hibari says. “My strength will never be contained by a ring _or_ a box.” He places his Vongola cloud box on the oak desk and then moves back to his original position, crossing his arms.

Chrome Dokuro chooses just that moment to giggle, a sweet, feminine sound that is deliberately condescending. Hibari bristles, watching her turn from the window and face the room for the first time since showing him that Cheshire smile.

“Boss,” she says, a whisper barely audible so that the others in the room strain automatically to hear her. She approaches Sawada and takes his hand, then places her ring in his palm and closes his fingers over it. “Here. You may have mine too. I will not need it to continue being your Guardian of the Mist.”

“Thank you, Chrome—” Sawada pauses. “Er, Chrome-san.”

He glances down at their hands, and she repeats her quiet laugh and releases him. She places her box on the desk beside Hibari’s and heads for the door, unlocking it to let herself out. Her lips curl in secret satisfaction as she disappears, the door falling shut behind her.

“Che!” Gokudera strides forward.

Gokudera makes a big production of putting his Vongola ring into the holder next to Sawada’s, and unstrapping the belts under his suit around his hips that hold his Vongola box and the associated version of the Sistema C.A.I. Hibari recognizes the design, an upgrade from the Innocenti original Gokudera used to wear.

“The Tenth knows what’s best for the Family, and I stand with the Tenth.” Gokudera faces the remaining Guardians. “Now you guys—hurry up and do what the Boss says!”

“Gokudera…” Sawada murmurs, lifting one hand and then dropping it back to his side.

Sasagawa rumbles, but takes off his ring and turns in his box. He swipes the leather sun-attribute box from the desk and shoves it in his pocket before leaving the room, eyes dark and jaw locked.

Gokudera jerks a thumb at Lambo, spurring him on. Lambo shakes his head at first, vehement, and Gokudera grabs him by the collar and drags him to the desk.

“Hurry it up!”

“I don’t want to,” Lambo whines, lips trembling and tears beginning to spill. But he slides the ring from his finger and passes it over, snatching his replacement box before sniffing back a glob of snot and hurrying from the room before he loses it altogether.

Those of them left—Sawada, Gokudera, and Hibari—look to Yamamoto, who has stood still in his place off to one side. Hibari watches him close, unsure what to make of Yamamoto’s unusual reticence.

Gokudera frowns. “What’s with you?”

Yamamoto affects a shrug, but Hibari can see the tension in his every move.

“I…” Yamamoto rubs the back of his neck. “Does it have to be today, Tsuna?”

Sawada and Gokudera start in surprise.

Yamamoto slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ll turn it in, since that’s what you’ve decided, but… can I have a little more time?”

Sawada’s lips press together in concern. “There’s the dinner banquet tonight with all our allied Families, so I have to take care of this before then.”

“That’s fine,” Yamamoto nods. “A few hours should be enough, I guess.”

“Alright,” Sawada agrees. “I’ll meet you here when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Tsuna,” Yamamoto tips his head in a short bow, and then heads for the door, not looking back.

“Wha—” Gokudera looks after him, jaw slack in confusion. “Hey! What was that about? Don’t just walk off, idiot—”

Sawada touches Gokudera’s arm, shaking his head. “Gokudera. Let him go.”

Hibari approaches the desk, wearing his darkest glare. “Where is the Baby, Sawada Tsunayoshi?”

Gokudera sputters at him, indignant, and Sawada touches Gokudera’s arm a second time. Then Sawada smiles his first relaxed smile of the day before answering.

“Reborn will be excited to see you too, Hibari-san. He’s away at a shooting range doing some sort of dangerous thing with Colonello, but he’ll be back after tonight’s banquet in time for dessert.”

Hibari glowers, more pissed off than he’s been all day. “Don’t expect me to stay for any banquet, Sawada Tsunayoshi.”

Sawada merely smiles, eyes bright. “You are welcome to stay or leave as you please, same as always, Hibari-san. But thank you very much for coming.”

Sawada gives him a deep bow, and Hibari clenches his teeth. He picks up the cloud-affinity ring box from Sawada’s desk before he turns on his heel and leaves the room, closing the door behind him with more force than is really necessary.

He starts for the curved front staircase, prepared to leave, and then he halts. He changes his mind and heads deeper along the second floor to the rear staircase that leads up to the third. From there he goes to the wing where Sawada—and the other Vongola Bosses before him—have always kept rooms available for their Guardians.

Hibari’s suite is suitably distant from the rest, and has recently been aired out. He puts the ring box on the first flat surface he passes, then takes off his jacket and tie and yawns, figuring he more than deserves a nice long nap. After that, the Baby will be back.

And then he will get on the first plane out of there.

—

The noise that wakes Hibari is strange but familiar, something he can’t place while groggy and disoriented.

From the light slanting in through the draperies he can tell it’s still early afternoon, and he frowns. He’d hoped to sleep until nightfall. The noise repeats and his ears perk, trying to nail down when or where he might have heard such a sound. It is coming from somewhere outside and muffled by distance, but he still hears it: a solid _thock_… with a metallic ring that hangs in the air after it, suspended and spreading outward, thin, thinner, gone.

Hibari goes to the window, carefully pulling back the drapes. Far, far out on the estate’s grounds he sees a dark haired man in a t-shirt and track pants swinging a baseball bat in warm-up circles at his side. Before him, an Akita-Inu races back and forth in energetic bounds, cavorting through green, green grass in eager anticipation.

_Yamamoto._

Yamamoto digs into a bucket of baseballs, and Hibari watches him toss one in the air and hit it with the kind of effortless force in which Yamamoto does all the things he loves. He sends the ball slicing through the air—a double grand slam—and the dog tears off racing after it and leaping higher than any normal dog could leap to make the catch.

Jirou comes back with the ball in his teeth, all silky fur and blue flames dancing and carousing around Yamamoto’s feet. He nips at Yamamoto’s hands when they’re not buried in his scruff, demanding affection; Yamamoto is more than happy to comply, grinning and getting down on one knee to give him a proper and thorough reward. The joy on their faces is unmatched.

Hibari unlocks the window and lifts it no more than a finger’s width. The next _thock_ rings loud and clear, Yamamoto’s cheers and the dog’s ecstatic barking filtering back on the wind.

Hibari closes his eyes and listens to their game of catch until the very end, hearing the silent undercurrent of Yamamoto’s pain as he plays with his dog for the last time. There’s not a trace of it in Yamamoto’s voice as he praises Jirou and hugs him tight, the two of them laughing and wrestling on the ground in-between “innings.”

When the yips and barks disappear, Hibari can’t help the answering ache behind his ribs; Yamamoto returns to the mansion alone, baseball bat braced across his shoulders, head down.

Hibari locks his jaw and wonders if Sawada calculated _this_ when making his decision to destroy the rings, and hopes that Sawada listened to every moment of Yamamoto’s goodbye so he would know exactly what he has cost them all.

—

Hibari ventures down to the ground floor once the smells of the banquet change from robust dinner courses to the lighter scents of dessert coffees and tiramisù.

He avoids the salons with lingering guests and heads for the back entrance to the kitchens, which should be clean and empty in preparation for the next day’s meals. Sure enough, seated at a midnight-snacking table in the back near a row of tall aluminum refrigerators, Hibari finds the one person he was looking for… and one person he was not.

Sawada Iemitsu looks up as Hibari enters, and his whole posture changes. His face breaks out into a grin and he leans back in his chair, evincing nothing but casual joviality. The Baby raises his chin and smiles, but even an idiot could guess these two were in a deep and private discussion only moments before, despite the plates of half-eaten second helpings of dessert in front of them.

“So you came, Hibari.”

Hibari doesn’t take his eyes from either of them. “Yes. It’s good to see you, Baby.”

“Same here.”

Sawada Iemitsu gets up from his seat and loosens his tie somewhat. “Well, I better get back to my beautiful wife before she starts wondering if I’m really attending a traffic-control conference,” he says, winking. “Look after Tsuna, okay Reborn?”

The Baby shakes his head. “That’s _his_ job,” he says, jerking a thumb at Hibari.

“Don’t be mistaken.” Hibari scowls.

Sawada Iemitsu laughs and comes over to Hibari, hand raised as if he intends to clap him on the shoulder and squeeze—but then he turns the motion into a simple wave goodbye, grabbing a wine bottle on his way out of the kitchen. He lifts it in salute and disappears through the swinging doors.

Hibari watches him go, irritated, but unsure of exactly why.

“I hear it’s been an interesting day, Hibari.”

The reminder brings the events of the morning and afternoon back to the forefront of his mind, and Hibari is furious all over again.

The Baby shrugs. “Don’t be too hard on Tsuna. The Vongola intuition is seldom off the mark.”

“Then you agree with his decision?” Hibari cocks his head.

“It doesn’t matter if I agree or not—I’m not the Boss.”

“Is it okay for a Boss to cripple not only himself, but those who would protect him?”

The Baby gives that sly chuckle of his. “You might be surprised, Hibari. Tsuna has been training without his Vongola ring.”

Hibari’s brow furrows. “And?”

“Are you forgetting who his tutor is?” The Baby looks him in the eye.

Hibari humphs. “I have trouble believing that Sawada Tsunayoshi would be worth my time without the powers of the Vongola ring.”

“Believe what you want,” the Baby shrugs again. “The sky ring Tsuna received as a gift from Lancia is stronger than either of us expected.”

“But can it match?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Hibari says nothing.

“Well, anyways,” the Baby puts down his tiramisù spoon. “It’s good you came. I have something to ask of you, Hibari.”

“Oh?” Hibari’s lips curve in the start of a smile.

The Baby reaches down beside his stack of cushions and retrieves a slender wrapped bundle. “I need someone to take this down to the empty storage area in the basement. Can you do that?”

“What is this?” Hibari asks, though based on the weight in his hand he knows it can only be one thing.

“Call it a hunch,” the Baby says.

Hibari lifts one brow, expecting to see the Baby’s sideways, teasing smirk and finding him serious. Serious and _blank-faced_. His most dangerous.

“And if I agree?” Hibari asks, instincts warning him that this is no usual request.

“I’ll owe you one,” the Baby says. “And so will Tsuna.”

Hibari grips the object tight, and then nods. It’s always been his policy to agree to anything that would put an Arcobaleno in his debt.

—

The basement underneath the Vongola headquarters is fake; the real secrets are kept even further down, laboratories and storage rooms and other classified areas connected by a series of watery canals.

But the Baby didn’t say to dig that far. Hibari takes the spiral steps down past the staff floor to the first level basement, and then goes to the only room with light showing under the door.

Inside it’s mostly empty, a few oversized crates stacked haphazardly along the right hand wall, but what Hibari notices first and foremost is the man who whirls around to face him.

Sweat dots his angry brow and his chest quavers with the efforts of prolonged labor. For a moment they just look at each other in equal surprise and calculation.

“Hibari.” Yamamoto Takeshi shakes the hair from his face and exhales a long breath. He doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t seem to realize his smile is missing. “What are you doing here?”

Hibari closes the door behind him and enters the room, footsteps echoing on the high cement ceiling. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Yamamoto looks away, hand clenched tight around the handle of his Shigure Kintoki. “Look, I… I’d really rather not see you right now.”

Hibari stops right where he is. Stunned. There are too many questions for him to decide which to ask.

“You’re looking for a fight, right?” Yamamoto chuckles, but the noise doesn’t match the despair on his face. “I don’t think I’m up for it right now.”

“Do not presume things,” Hibari says, moving forward two more steps, fingers clutched tight around the fabric bundle.

Yamamoto does make the attempt to smile then, only it’s so, so wrong on his face—possibly the worst thing Hibari has ever seen.

“Haha, well, I think I better take a rain check anyways, because I wouldn’t be an entertaining prey for you like this—”

Hibari lunges forward and strikes Yamamoto in the face with the tonfa in his left hand, knocking him backward to the concrete floor in a sprawl. There is a flash in Yamamoto’s eyes as he scrambles to get up—_good_—but the shinai remains untransformed, the gaudy ring on his finger inert, his reactions lethargic and weak willed.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” Hibari demands, furious—Yamamoto could have dodged that in his sleep.

Yamamoto gets to his feet, slowly, like his whole body aches. He still holds tight to the shinai, but it might as well be just a steel club at his side.

Hibari bares his teeth. “Where is your Swallow? Why didn’t you use your ring?”

“I can’t do it yet, alright?” Yamamoto snaps. He holds the shinai out in front of him with a shaking hand.

Hibari’s lips thin.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but the new ring won’t combine with Shigure Kintoki. I may get it eventually, but something… something’s not right… I…”

Yamamoto lets the sentence hang there, and the missing pieces fall into place to create a picture even worse than anything else that day. Hibari finds himself trembling with pure, roiling anger; he understands exactly what it cost Yamamoto to admit his weakness, especially to him.

He holds up the wrapped bundle in his hand and throws it at Yamamoto. “Then use _this_.”

Yamamoto knows what it is from the moment it touches his hand. He frowns, the questions plain on his face.

“It’s a gift from the Baby.”

“From the little guy?” Yamamoto murmurs, eyeing the embroidery along the dark blue fabric. He unties the golden cord at one end and draws the katana from the sheath. The blade gleams and the hilt sparkles with fine craftsmanship, and though Yamamoto knows what to do, he is still reluctant to let go of Shigure Kintoki.

Hibari watches the conflict on his face, finding that there are some things even Yamamoto Takeshi can not simply laugh away.

Yamamoto walks over to the crate behind him where he’d folded aside his suit jacket and tie before beginning his futile efforts, down here in a corner of the basement where it would be unlikely for him to be disturbed. He places Shigure Kintoki across them. Then he stands up straight, and as he faces Hibari, he lights the ring with blue flame.

The rain flames are A-rank in purity, but still seem pale and paltry compared to what Hibari has seen before. Yamamoto’s face hardens in concentration, and then, bit by bit, the flames spread from underneath his curled fingers and coat the blade another hand’s width. But no more.

It’s enough. They both know he can do it, and first relief—and then guilt—flutter over Yamamoto’s features.

Hibari draws his second tonfa, and loosens the tension all through his shoulders, preparing for the obvious next step.

Yamamoto meets his eyes. “Where’s your ring, Hibari?”

Hibari shrugs. “I left it somewhere.”

“But won’t you—”

“I don’t need that thing,” Hibari insists, and Yamamoto extinguishes his ring just in time to block and parry his first strike, steel sparking against steel.

_You don’t need it either_, Hibari thinks, pressing Yamamoto to keep up with his weapons. _Now show me the man I know you are, Yamamoto Takeshi._

Slowly but surely, Hibari sees the confidence return to Yamamoto’s movements, and then to his serious eyes. They weave across the storage room floor, ducking around support posts and jockeying to use the stacked crates to their advantage. Hibari rips through the front of one, causing it to lean, precarious. Two others stacked above it come tumbling down in a booming crash, and Yamamoto whirls the debris away with his flawless seventh defensive form: Spraying Rain.

It’s still not enough to fix what’s wrong. Hibari senses it from Yamamoto’s immediate charge, pupils narrowed to slits still hungry for release. The weight of the day’s losses has split Yamamoto wide open and Hibari knows this battle is only part of what he needs. This bond between them, however unlikely, has grown strong.

Maybe the Baby already knew.

Hibari bares his teeth and whittles away at Yamamoto’s pain, muscles primed with the intense physicality of this fight and blood pumping steady in their veins. When the keener edges of Yamamoto’s agony have been worn down to the simpler, bitter aftertaste of frustration, Hibari changes the nature this confrontation and backs Yamamoto into the corner, disarming him and pressing a tonfa high into Yamamoto’s throat. Their eyes lock, mouths open and lungs straining for air.

The closeness of their bodies is enough to tempt Yamamoto’s hands to grab for him, deft fingers scrabbling at his clothes. Hibari digs the one tonfa harder into Yamamoto’s neck, but drops the other so he can fist Yamamoto’s hair and tug him down the wall until he’s on his knees. Holding him by the hair in a warning to stay put, Hibari lets go of his remaining tonfa and reaches for the front of his pants. But Yamamoto pushes his hand away, eager to yank the clasps and unzip Hibari’s slacks himself.

Yamamoto is not usually so impatient, but Hibari finds he doesn’t mind, keeping the one hand tight in Yamamoto’s hair and bracing his right hand flat on the wall. Yamamoto’s mouth is hot, his throat even hotter; Hibari closes his eyes and puts his left hand up on the wall in front of him, letting Yamamoto suck him off as hard and as fast as he wants. Yamamoto’s hands are as greedy as his tongue, shoving Hibari’s slacks down to his knees and then moving over Hibari’s bare thighs and clenched buttocks, ghosting over his tightened abs and then dipping across the hollow at the small of his back—the one place that makes Hibari shiver every single time.

Yamamoto rushes him towards climax and Hibari knows there is pride here, Yamamoto’s pride in knowing just how to do it. It annoys him but Hibari throws his head back as the sensations build and hisses when they crash over him, his hips jerking and thrusting into Yamamoto’s sweet, swallowing mouth.

He’s breathless and dizzy from doing this standing up, but Hibari doesn’t want to lose any momentum. He grabs Yamamoto by the collar and yanks him back up to his feet, shoving him square in the corner because the one thing Hibari will not tolerate is being the one boxed in.

Hibari rips Yamamoto’s shirt out from his pants and reaches for the buckle to his belt when Yamamoto grabs his head and forces their lips together in a kiss of such wound-up and urgent desire Hibari can’t focus on anything else. For ten full seconds there is nothing but lips cutting on teeth and the glide of tongues, noses angled harshly into cheekbones and jaws aching to stretch wide enough to meet such urgent need.

Yamamoto’s arms clutch tight around Hibari’s back, and Hibari comes rushing back to his senses. He yanks Yamamoto’s hands away and holds them fast against the wall, and then turns his hips and tears their mouths apart so he stands facing that huge open room with Yamamoto trapped behind him.

Yamamoto transfers his mouth to the back of Hibari’s neck, and Hibari shrugs out of his jacket because it is just too hot to keep it on any longer. Yamamoto helps get it off and throws it to the ground, and Hibari scowls but braces his hands on the wall, rocks back into Yamamoto’s body, and says, “_Come on._”

He doesn’t have to say it twice.

Yamamoto may be the one boxed in, but in this position he’s got total access. Hibari hears the tumult of Yamamoto’s pent up emotions in the growls transferred to his nape, in the fingernails digging into his hips and yanking their bodies flush. Hibari pants and takes in all of Yamamoto’s grief, every hardened inch of it, realizing that he is the only one who can.

The Baby must have known that too.

Yamamoto’s teeth sink into the muscle of Hibari’s shoulder and Hibari bucks—so close to crying out—in pleasure or in pain, he doesn’t quite know which. He’s fucked Yamamoto like this before, hard and fast and on the edge of impersonal, but this time it’s different. _More._ Yamamoto’s sorrow becomes _his_ sorrow, and Hibari arcs his back and meets each thrust so that all that will be left is a dull ache in the wake of these shared moments of harsh ecstasy.

Yamamoto takes what he needs, all that his belly can handle. And while it’s not enough to fill the void completely, Hibari thinks it’s enough to get him through the hardest first steps. The rest will be up to Yamamoto.

Spent, Yamamoto smoothes his hands down Hibari’s sweaty ribs and then lets them fall to his sides, leaning in to touch his nose to Hibari’s temple.

Hibari turns away and bends—legs unsteady—to pull his slacks back into place, stained as they are from such activities. While Yamamoto does the same, Hibari grabs his suit jacket and tonfa from the floor, and then staggers away from him, head held high.

“Don’t you ever show such weakness to me again, Yamamoto Takeshi.” Hibari says, kicking the katana up to his hand and tossing it to Yamamoto. From the look Yamamoto gives him, he won’t have to worry.

As Hibari leaves the room his mouth curls in a brief, private smirk, thinking that the next time they meet will be very different.

Something he can look forward to.

—

Hibari climbs the endless stairs back to his suite on the third floor, ignoring the strange looks he gets from the two staff members who cross his path while busy seeing to the late-night needs of other guests in the mansion; they are eager to fade into the woodwork and keep out of his way.

The wardrobe beside the bed has two suits and a yukata hanging inside it, clean and pressed. Less than an hour later Hibari transfers his passport and credit cards to the jacket of a clean suit, the leather ring box snug in his pocket and his black hair still damp from his bath.

He heads straight out the front door and to the garage, noting the red Ferrari parked off at a small distance that means Dino Cavallone is somewhere inside the mansion at this very minute. Instead of the usual Valet, Hibari finds Sawada Iemitsu’s subordinates Oregano and Turmeric standing beside the board full of numbered key rings.

They pretend to be volunteers with nothing better to do, but Hibari knows better. Even so, he climbs into the passenger seat of a sleek BMW beside Turmeric, and fifty-seven minutes later they arrive at the Bergamo airport.

—

Hibari steps off the plane six hours later. Before doing anything else, he and Kusakabe drive out to one of the Foundation’s remote testing grounds, because Hibari has had some time to reflect on the events of the past twenty-four hours and there is something he wants to determine as soon as possible.

Inside the controlled environment, Hibari opens the leather box with the gold leaf insignia, and slides the cloud ring with its faceted jewel onto his finger. Remembering Yamamoto’s struggle, he expects to find it difficult to draw forth a suitable flame.

On the contrary—the ring alights with cloud flames instantly, pulsing and trembling on his finger. Hibari thrusts the flames into his basic hedgehog box and releases the animal. It swirls and darts about the enclosed training facility, movements and speed more or less at the usual levels.

But then the ring on Hibari’s hand suddenly bursts into countless shards. Unable to withstand the potency of his wave energy, Sawada Tsunayoshi’s gift turns into so much dust on the linoleum.

With a squeak of surprise, the hedgehog slips back into the box. Hibari closes his eyes and exhales a long breath, thinking for the first time that Sawada may have been right about at least one thing—there is indeed something horribly wrong with this world.

_My strength will never be contained by a ring _or_ a box._

Hibari exits the testing grounds, lips pressed thin, Kusakabe a silent and grim shadow behind him. This complication, he would much rather have done without.

—

It’s easy enough to use Foundation records to locate those who hold cloud-affinity Mafia rings. It’s easier still to acquire them.

Hibari tests one of every grade. The results are the same. It changes the focus of the Foundation’s main research, but not by much—Hibari has always been interested in surpassing the limits of the curious ring-box combinations that so dominate this era.

The rumors of a fearsome person collecting cloud rings can’t be stopped; Hibari anticipates this and uses it to his advantage, having put his first victim into the hospital with such extreme injuries that the rest think twice about trying to fight him when he comes for their cloud rings. It saves him from spending too much effort on grass-grazing buffoons, but there is one drawback; the rings exist in a fixed quantity.

Where once Hibari could let loose at the slightest whim, now he must calculate the cost of every fight, and the number of worthy adversaries narrows to a scant handful overnight.

The mental energy it takes to keep his bloodthirsty nature in check is quite substantial, and a residue of resentment begins to form, particle after sticky particle collecting and fermenting inside the core of his being. He spends more time drinking tea. He spends more time being alone.

Hibari takes more care than ever to keep his whereabouts unknown, withdrawing from the Vongola’s long reach and avoiding Namimori or any place someone might think to look for him. Thus, when Kusakabe comes back to the research facility in Florence after his night off, bearing a curious package from Yamamoto Takeshi in his hands, it comes as something of a shock.

Hibari immediately unwraps the bundle of brown paper, and four cloud-affinity rings tumble out into his palm. He glares at Kusakabe. “Tetsu. Explain this.”

Kusakabe frowns in chagrin. “I had no idea he was even in Italy, Kyo-san. Last I heard he was in Japan with his Pop, but tonight he showed up where I had just finished dinner, and so we had a few drinks—nothing out of the ordinary in that, anyways. Then he hands me the package, asks me to give it to you, and that’s it. He just leaves. So I returned here right away.”

“And he said nothing to you about the rings inside? Was there any message?”

“No, Kyo-san. He didn’t say a word.” Kusakabe shakes his head.

Hibari looks down at the rings in his hand. Yamamoto has never come and gone so quickly before.

Unnerved—for the man has somehow deduced that he is the one collecting rings—Hibari waits for instructions or demands, prepared for either although he is _livid_ at the idea of Yamamoto blackmailing him. He watches transmissions passed through Vongola communication channels, and has all Foundation members on the alert for missives arriving by post, but nothing happens. Days, then weeks go by.

A month later, Yamamoto drops by the same research facility just outside of Venice. He knocks on the front door, hands a 35mm film container to one of the Foundation member guards and waves goodbye as he walks away. The hideout goes on instant alert, the member in question bringing the film container to Hibari double-time.

When Hibari sees what’s inside the cylinder he goes outside after Yamamoto intent on catching him before he can drive away—he doesn’t know what kind of game or joke this is, but he won’t be made the fool.

On foot, further down the winding sidewalk, Yamamoto senses him coming and turns around, pausing to let him catch up.

“Oh, you’re home. I didn’t meant to interrupt you.”

Hibari gives him a level glare, shoulders squared and weight forward on the balls of his feet. “What are you playing at, Yamamoto Takeshi?”

Yamamoto chuckles. “Um, nothing?”

“What do you mean by bringing these here?” Hibari inches forward, film container gripped tight in his left hand. “Is this some kind of challenge?”

“No, no,” Yamamoto puts up his hands, waving them. “Well… Of course I always enjoy it when we fight,” he admits, flashing a devilish smile. “But that’s not why I stopped by. I don’t have cloud affinity, so I figured maybe you had use for them, Hibari.”

“And what’s the catch, Yamamoto Takeshi.” Hibari tilts his head. “Are you threatening me on behalf of the Vongola? Or are you implying I will owe you personally for your silence?”

Yamamoto’s smile fades into a partial smirk, jaded at the corners. He shrugs, and then even the smirk fades away into something blank. “No catch,” he says, motioning to the katana slung around his shoulder, the one replacing his father’s shinai. “I know what it’s like. That’s all.”

Hibari closes his mouth, still unsatisfied even though he can remember every moment of Yamamoto’s frustration and pain from that day; they haven’t seen each other since. Standing here with him now brings it all back.

Yamamoto chuckles, running fingers through his short hair. “No one else knows, Hibari. I figured it out after Tsuna asked me to check up on the guy who wound up in the hospital, the one everyone was talking about. It was a very thorough job. Figured only someone like you could do all that and manage not to kill the guy.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Hibari crosses his arms, glaring.

“Haha.” Yamamoto shrugs. “Yeah, I guess it is. But then more rings disappeared, and the rumor going around says that the monster responsible is so strong that any ring he uses will burst after the release of his box weapon.”

Yamamoto pauses. Hibari holds his gaze, the silence stretching taut. Yamamoto’s body shifts automatically into a preparation stance, responding to Hibari’s energy.

“There’s only one person I know who is that powerful,” Yamamoto says, every bit of him completely serious.

Hibari raises the film container. “Do not think for a moment that my strength is any less, for this.”

“You have no idea how much I want to fight you right now, Hibari,” Yamamoto answers, dark eyes glimmering.

Hibari swallows, itching to meet Yamamoto head-on as soon as possible. “That can be arranged.”

Yamamoto glances away, face turning somber and shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. “But I can’t stay. Not this time.”

Hibari finds it irritating how much this bothers him, and scowls.

“I’m due in at headquarters by midnight,” Yamamoto shifts his weight to one leg.

“Well whatever.” Hibari taps the lid of the film container, rattling the rings inside. “I think I’ll keep these, for now.”

“For next time,” Yamamoto catches his eyes. “And if I come across any more I’ll bring them too.”

“I refuse to be in your debt, Yamamoto Takeshi.” Hibari cocks his head.

“Haha, it’s not like that. I’m the one in your debt, Hibari. Remember?” Yamamoto brushes his fingers over the cords holding the katana in place behind his shoulder. “This is the least I could do.”

Hibari nods, and puts the rings in his pocket. “That’s fine then.” And then he turns and walks back to his hideout before Yamamoto can do anything to change his mind.

“Next time I’ll definitely show you my new move! Be prepared!” Yamamoto calls, voice thick with promises.

“If you can find me,” Hibari whispers in reply as they part in opposite directions.

Somehow Yamamoto always does.

—

Meeting again is not easy. Things in the Mafia world grow tumultuous overnight once the Gesso Family begins making moves, and any encounters are naturally shorter and more frantic.

Part of the struggle is Hibari’s schedule, packed full so he can ensure the Foundation remains under the radar as it moves behind the scenes. The other part is Sawada Tsunayoshi’s need for information and diplomacy, putting his Left Hand into nonstop action in the attempt to stay current with the Gesso’s movements, which only grow more and more sinister over time.

And soon enough, all of them will feel the shockwave created by the merger of the Gesso and Giglionero Families, which not only results in the most ruthless and powerful Mafia force in recent history—but also threatens everything that humanity holds dear.

♦


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Hibari sits with his eyes closed, ensconced in his favorite room beneath Namimori’s shrine, a steaming cup of tea warming his hand and his body.

Kusakabe Tetsuya returns from the Namimori Vongola base before too long. Hibari nods for him to enter and sit to his left.

“Kyo-san. I have passed on the information regarding Hibird and the backup distress signals.”

“And?” Hibari sips his tea.

“It seems that Bianchi-san and Fuuta-san have located the entrance to the Millefiori base here in Namimori.”

Hibari lifts a brow.

“It’s concealed by the underground shopping mall, the one completed three years ago.”

Hibari smirks. “I see.”

He has known the location for a while; Irie Shoichi told him personally back in Milan weeks ago. Still, Hibari finds it interesting that the Vongola would discover it on their own. It’s one less task for him to do now, and for that, he supposes he is grateful.

—

While the young Vongole are healing, countless things are happening behind the scenes. Some are overseen by Irie Shoichi, and some are put in motion by at least one other, actions fueled by whispers from Sawada Tsunayoshi long before he died from a Millefiori bullet, or perhaps even from beyond the grave.

For a time, Hibari’s days are quiet.

The Millefiori occupation above ground keeps him inside the Foundation’s hideout, but the Japanese architectural design and the small familiar touches—the soft smell of tatami floors and the swish of sliding doors—are comforting. He has not been back to Japan in quite some time. And if he must die in the end, he’d rather die here in Namimori than anyplace else.

On the twelfth day, Kusakabe announces a visitor, and Hibari is pleased to see the Baby standing in the open doorway, a genuine smile on his face.

“Welcome, Baby.”

Hibari nods for Kusakabe to leave the two of them alone; as he withdraws behind the paper-screen door the Baby comes forward and takes the cushion opposite Hibari.

“I think you may know why I’m here,” the Baby begins.

Hibari tilts his head. “How is Sawada Tsunayoshi’s training going?” He offers to pour a second cup of tea, which the Baby accepts.

“Well, you know,” The Baby shrugs. “Lal is doing her best, but that kid has a long way to go if what she tells me is correct.”

Hibari’s mouth curves.

“Anyways, I’ve thought of a way to whip him into shape, but that’s not why I came.”

“Oh?” Hibari lifts one brow, curiosity piqued.

The Baby nods. “Yamamoto and Gokudera should be ready to begin their training tomorrow. I’d like for you to train Yamamoto, Hibari.”

Hibari’s features immediately smooth into a calm mask. Then he closes his eyes and chuckles. “I’m sorry. Even though it’s you asking, that would be impossible.”

“Yamamoto has the most potential right now.” The Baby cocks his head. “I heard you knew the Yamamoto of this era well. Aren’t you interested in seeing what his younger self can become?”

“You too, Baby,” Hibari looks him in the eye. “Are you so eager to pass up this chance to train him yourself? You have always been interested in his abilities. And you were the one to scout him.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“But then there is Sawada Tsunayoshi to consider.”

The Baby smirks. “You have an idea.”

Hibari sips his tea. “I can tell you a way to make Yamamoto Takeshi reach some of that potential you so badly want to see.”

“And in exchange?”

Hibari smiles, something feral and bordering on unpleasant. “Leave Sawada Tsunayoshi to me. I am not bonded to him the way you are, and therefore I can be the genuine threat needed to put him through the Vongola trial.”

“Hmm,” the Baby smiles back. “So you knew something about that. Then you’re serious about this, aren’t you Hibari.”

Hibari nods. “But if he survives, I will continue to train him in my own way. Are we in agreement, Baby?”

“I suppose either way they both will become strong,” the Baby comments, then shrugs. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”

Hibari curves both hands around his tea cup, pleased.

“Now talk to me about Yamamoto.”

Hibari watches the surface of his tea, then flicks his eyes to the Baby. “First he needs to know how to combine the flames from the Vongola Ring with Shigure Kintoki.”

The Baby smiles. “The Yamamoto of this era said the same thing.”

Hibari frowns. “And what else did he say?”

“Nothing much. Continue.”

Hibari lifts a brow. “Then once he has mastered that, I suggest you go to the quarters of the Rain Guardian of this era, and look for a box of DVD’s he stored there.”

“DVD’s?” The Baby frowns.

Hibari lifts the tea cup to his lips. “You will understand when you find them, Baby. Those DVD’s brought about a significant jump in his power before; evidently there are some things a swordsman can learn only from another swordsman.”

“But not a lover?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Hibari’s gaze sharpens in warning, answered by the Baby’s signature killing intent.

“Hm.” The Baby smirks. “Well. This should be fun. Thank you for the tea, Hibari.”

Hibari watches him go, brow creased. “Anytime, Baby.”

—

**[The weak will be buried. That’s a given.]**

For Hibari, forcing the juvenile Sawada Tsunayoshi to undergo the Vongola Trial is a kind of well earned revenge.

It’s the one selfish act he is allowed as this timeline plays out, and Hibari enjoys every moment—including the appalled faces of everyone else gathered in basement six while he explains how his box weapon works, the oxygen inside depleting at a dangerous and rapid pace.

It is so easy to become the most genuine threat necessary to make Sawada evolve; Hibari presses his hand to the sphere’s exterior surface and speaks of death to the youth inside, and in this way he feels maybe he can communicate a small fraction of the resentment that eats at his insides and grows with every passing moment.

He has some doubts as to whether their younger selves are really worthy of the trust and responsibility required to take the last ten years and remake them into anything good. And yet, as predicted by his older self that night in Milan, Sawada Tsunayoshi survives the Vongola trial, the youngest boss ever to undergo such an experience.

Hibari feels a strange sort of satisfaction and disappointment at once. But then Hibari sees the transformed gloves on Sawada’s hands, and the purity of that orange flame, and his body reacts with instinctual excitement.

Sawada’s performance is indeed impressive, but it doesn’t make Hibari any more able to tolerate the presence of teenage Yamamoto, who comes in search of the Baby. It’s easier if Hibari pretends that person no longer exists, and from most perspectives he’s not wrong, so he closes his eyes and passes him with barely a word, fighting back the memories brought on by the sight and smell of Yamamoto’s kendo training gear.

At least Hibari’s days of inactivity while trapped underground have finally come to an end; he can enjoy himself in crushing Sawada again tomorrow, so long as Yamamoto keeps out of his way.

—

Not long after Hibari’s sessions with Sawada have begun, Sasagawa Ryohei arrives with Chrome Dokuro.

With this, the six guardians have been gathered in one place, and Hibari can hear the clock ticking. Sasagawa relays the important message about the large scale attack encompassing Vongola forces in both Italy and Japan, and Hibari must wait and see if Sawada makes the correct decision on his own, or if he’ll have to step in and take actions to ensure the attack goes forward as planned.

Chrome Dokuro takes an unexpected turn for the worse, and Hibari takes over her hospital room, hand braced under her fragile bird’s neck. In such an emergency he must force her to draw on the ring and stay alive—there is no turning back now, not anymore, and like it or not they all have to get through this together. It’s also a rare chance to garner a debt from the man he hates the most; Rokudo Mukuro will have to thank him for saving his cute Chrome. Hibari can only hope the man follows through on leaking certain information before it’s too late, if Chrome’s state is anything to go by.

As soon as she’s out of the worst danger, Hibari sends Kusakabe join the others in the conference room where the question of the hour is under heavy debate. Hibari uses the opportunity to search Dokuro’s belongings and remove the planted transmitter; it will be useful to him later.

When he joins the rest in the conference room the situation is grim, what with Chrome still in critical condition, Lambo a mere child, and Lal Mirch badly hurt. Hibari stands apart from the rest, back to the wall, and waits for Sawada Tsunayoshi talk things through aloud.

In the end Hibari doesn’t have to do anything. Sawada chooses to move forward, all their hopes riding on the belief that the world as it exists in this moment isn’t right.

And Hibari is beginning to believe that ultimately… he’s right.

—

The blueprints of the Melone Base do come through, causing much excitement for Sawada and the rest, who have been struggling to compile a decent offensive strategy on so little information.

It means things went as well as possible for the spy in Italy, although some of the other expected documents don’t make it through the file transfer intact, which is a mild cause for worry. But Hibari knows _that guy_ won’t be done in so easily. And if nothing else, the surprise of the coded transmission sidetracked Sasagawa Ryohei from the original purpose of his visit, which was an attempt to convince Hibari to let him use the Foundation’s phone scrambler to contact one Kurokawa Hana, whose phone calls he couldn’t return while he was stuck hiding out with the Varia.

Hibari hopes he never has to see such an embarrassing display a second time. And then he chuckles at the irony, fists clenched tight at his sides.

Five days left to live—what options does he have left?

This knowledge, Hibari thinks, is the most cruel of all.

—

The night before the raid on Millefiori’s Melone base, the adults convene for one last conference in Hibari’s hideout beneath Namimori’s Shrine. Having so many people crowding in the room automatically puts him in a black mood; he’s glad Kusakabe is there to keep Sasagawa in line so he doesn’t waste a ring right before the main event.

There is much talk about percentages and success rates, statistics and measurements, but in principle Hibari agrees with Reborn—there is no way to predict the outcome when the materials are so raw. Plus, there are factors the rest of them can’t know, so any discussion on the matter is moot.

Instead, the questions in Hibari’s head are of a different nature; to him, the central dilemma is whether this “new” future they’re working so hard to create will turn out to be anything like what they imagine.

Who’s to say Sawada Tsunayoshi’s vision of the future is the best one for everyone?

If they survive the raid on Melone Base, and the Varia are successful in Italy, then Hibari’s teenage counterpart will fall under the tutelage of this era’s Dino Cavallone. Likewise, teenage Yamamoto Takeshi will be taken under the wing of this era’s Superbi Squalo. These experiences will shape them both in ways nobody can predict—not even Sawada Tsunayoshi with his infamous Vongola intuition.

Perhaps Yamamoto Takeshi will choose not to pursue Major League Baseball. Perhaps he’ll graduate high school and go directly to Squalo’s side in Italy for mentorship—or for something deeper, and more permanent. Perhaps Yamamoto will skip his teenaged romance with Gokudera Hayato for a dangerous, Mafia Hitman life, or perhaps these frightening experiences fighting Byakuran’s Millefiori will draw the two of them tight together, Vongola _Decimo’s_ Left and Right Hands, inseparable to the end.

Perhaps the Dino Cavallone of this era will teach Hibari’s younger self those crucial lessons in patience and temperance that much sooner, and with quite different results.

Who can say how this game will turn out?

Everything will be different.

_Everything._

—

**[So, how long does your instant last?]**

While Yamamoto stays in the kitchen eating apples and listening to the baseball game, Hibari sits in his usual spot at the breakfast table just off the kitchen with a breathtaking view of Palermo’s countryside.

He unwraps the plastic covering from his plate of food and finds the dish he recognized from the smells earlier. It galls him to know it’s one of Yamamoto’s specialties, a strange blend of Japanese and Italian cuisine which the man affectionately calls “black spaghetti.” But it tastes good, and Hibari is hungry, so these little irritating things slip by while he takes care of a more pressing need and fills his belly. The squid is tender and delicious, cooked in inky juices and tossed with fine noodles seasoned with white wine and a touch of garlic.

Yamamoto remains nearby, but lets him eat in peace without suffocating him in conversation. Hibari is so hungry he doesn’t notice the two black 35mm film containers on the table for the span of two innings. He knows exactly what he’ll find inside, but this doesn’t stop him from taking one, pushing off the cap and tapping the contents into his palm: four cloud-affinity rings, wrapped securely in mammon chain, tumble out. He finds three more in the other.

Hibari leaves all seven on the table and goes back to his meal. The idea that this will be the last time he eats this particular dish flits by his awareness, but he keeps his eyes on the vista of Sicilian countryside and does not react. The muffled sounds of the baseball game float through the villa, background noise that is easily ignored. He puts the last bite in his mouth and closes his eyes to intensify the flavor.

Hibari carries his plate to the sink, Yamamoto’s calm, yet constant presence goading him into action of one kind or another. There are two ways this spontaneous visit could play out, and the seven rings on the table in the breakfast nook would make for a glorious battle indeed. The desire for it courses through Hibari’s body in a snarl of lips and snapping teeth—but if he uses the rings now, he won’t have them later when all their futures are at stake.

Hibari detests being fettered in such a way, reliant on objects that can not withstand his power, and knows that this abominable feeling—if nothing else—is why he agreed to the plan, despite all that he will suffer and lose before the end.

He can only hold on to one truth: that a world where his strength is restrained should indeed not continue.

Yamamoto stands on the other side of the island, watching him, and Hibari rinses his hands and dries them before turning around.

“You know, Hibari,” Yamamoto begins, a twitch of a grin playing on his face. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Sicily.”

_It’s been a while since I’ve stood under the same roof as you, in the same room, close enough to touch._

Hibari tilts his head. “Your point?”

Yamamoto scratches the side of his neck, turning more serious. He drops his voice. “I borrowed the shower earlier so… If you want to, you can go ahead.”

Hibari shows no reaction, but knows the subtle invitation for what it is; they are both Japanese, attuned to such customs and sensibilities.

“I’ll do what I please, Yamamoto Takeshi,” Hibari replies before leaving the room, heading to his quarters on the second floor in calm, measured steps that belie the quickening of blood in his veins.

The rings will stay on the table for later use. But Hibari will enjoy himself this way just as much, and so will Yamamoto.

—

After his shower, Hibari carefully dries his body and redresses in his yukata before returning to his bedroom.

Yamamoto is waiting for him there, in the Japanese way, the anticipation of what comes next hanging thick in the air. Palpable. Hibari wades forward, towel-rubbing the wetness from his hair. Then he drops the towel on the floor and puts his hand on Yamamoto’s chest, pushing him flat on his back.

Since this is the last time, Hibari begins the way he did their first time—hands and mouth checking Yamamoto’s body from head to toe in search of the soft flesh of an herbivore, of which Yamamoto still has _none_.

Hibari is slow and thorough, fitting his hands around every curve and dip of lean muscle and jutting bone, his mouth sampling here and there until his senses are full of Yamamoto’s essence and his jaws ache with the need to mark and bite.

Yamamoto can’t know that these hours together are the last, the end of the spontaneous and unpredictable years they’ve shared, a life of chance encounters strung together. Yamamoto can’t know that he will die in three weeks time, and that they’ll never have another chance to speak again. Yamamoto can’t know that it will be another forty-seven days before it’s Hibari’s turn to die, bound to hold onto countless secrets all the way until the very end.

Yamamoto can’t know anything, but Hibari knows that Yamamoto has good instincts and can read him well enough to match his hungered, languid pace, made all the more intense by such deliberate thoroughness. He joins their bodies again and again; Hibari’s pulse quickens in an agony more tender and profound than ever before.

Throughout it all, Hibari’s brain runs through all the things he could say, but won’t.

Warnings. Requests. Declarations. Apologies. Pleas. Rebukes. Admissions. Commands. Confessions.

All of these manifest within Hibari’s perfect silence, a silence that is the only goodbye he will allow.

—

**[You cannot escape anymore.]**

While the Vongola base in Namimori sleeps, Hibari puts on his best suit and empties the last of his film containers full of cloud rings, going into battle armed with Yamamoto’s gifts.

He leaves his hideout under the cover of darkness and confronts the Millefiori ambush, springing the trap that will allow Sawada Tsunayoshi and his team to infiltrate Melone base. Their opponents are many, and it takes him quite some time to defeat them adequately, but he manages to do it while maintaining the schedule he memorized on a plane so many weeks ago. On his orders, Kusakabe retrieves Chrome and the children, and Hibari meets them and takes advantage of the girl’s illusions long enough to get inside the base and find his way to Irie Shoichi’s lab.

Is it a coincidence that Hibari’s arrival in a room outside the laboratory interrupts the teenage Yamamoto’s untimely death?

Hibari identifies the Phantom Knight and smiles; maybe he’ll get to go out fighting after all.

He hates mist users and illusionists with every fiber of his being, but Hibari does in fact enjoy their battle, both before and after he locks them within the reversed needle sphere form. He has no use for oxygen, not anymore, and the strength of his opponent is enough to make him giddy and elated—what better way for his life to end than battling someone of this caliber?

Here and now, breathing his last breaths, Hibari is filled with envy. Envy that his younger self will get to fight men like this without the crippling handicap of inferior rings. Envy that his younger self will get to see what kind of man Yamamoto Takeshi grows into, and test him. Envy that it’s his younger self that gets to live everything over again and use the Disciplinary Committee to build a global empire.

Hibari attacks up until the last moment, tonfa sliced into bits, bloodied hands grabbing for Genkishi’s skinny throat, a smile curving his lips.

It’s a death befitting the Vongola’s strongest warrior.

He feels the first tickle of the Ten-year Bazooka between his shoulder blades and drops his box weapons on the ground milliseconds before Genkishi’s sword passes through the hazy outline of his body.

Hibari Kyoya dissolves into a hundred billion molecules held in stasis inside Irie Shoichi’s machine, passing the torch to the ones who have come from the past so that the same mistakes will not ever be repeated—only the successes. The future is now a blank slate: _tabula rasa._

_“It’s all yours.”_

—

**[My will is my own.]**

As the Sicilian sun dips down below the line of trees in the distance, bathing the villa in a haze of goldenrod, Hibari reclines in bed, sheets draped over the lower half of his body in habitual modesty.

Across the room, Yamamoto sits in a chair by the dresser, pulling on his dress socks and then buttoning his shirt and cuffs. There’s a pattern to these things, and so Hibari knows that once Yamamoto puts on his coat and tie he’ll be on his way, returning to his regular work for Sawada and the rest of the Vongola Family, no inkling that everything in this world is about to change.

“You don’t ever try to stay,” Hibari comments.

Yamamoto looks over at him, mild surprise evident on his face. His mouth quirks on one side. “Is that a proposition?”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Hibari replies, eyes narrowing in his version of a smirk.

“You’re being funny today, Hibari.” Yamamoto’s lips part in the flash of a grin as he stands and tucks his shirt into his suit pants, drawing up the zipper and buckling his belt.

Hibari watches the process, falling silent while Yamamoto looks in the mirror above the dresser and ties his tie, long fingers making easy work of the fabric’s length.

“Yamamoto.”

Yamamoto’s eyes meet his in the reflection of the mirror, brows lifting in question.

“What if you had the chance and go back and relive the past, in order to change the future?”

Yamamoto blinks, then chuckles. He slides the knot of his tie into place, and then he turns and approaches the bed. “And why would I do that?”

Hibari cocks his head, as Yamamoto sits down beside him.

“I don’t know what’s on your mind,” Yamamoto says, carding his fingers through Hibari’s sweat-dampened hair. “But I think it’s better to live without regrets.”

Yamamoto leans closer to kiss Hibari’s temple, and then tilts Hibari’s head up for a brush of lips and nip of teeth, an interlude that sets Hibari’s blood to boil all over again. After, Yamamoto smiles a smile of confidence matured, shadowed by all his mistakes and also bright with the joys that have gone alongside.

“It’s a bit tough right now, with a lot of things we never expected,” Yamamoto says, turning to look out the window as he hooks their fingers and squeezes. “But I think we’ll shape the future with our own hands. Right Hibari?”

—

Ω


End file.
